


Thy Cup Runneth Over

by childrenofthesun



Series: All the Love Within Me [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, light dub/noncon elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24233422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childrenofthesun/pseuds/childrenofthesun
Summary: A few decades before the Apocalypse, the Archangels discover that Aziraphale is irreparably in love with Crowley.Rather than smiting the demon, they take pity on their Earthbound operative, and remove the obstacle by giving Aziraphale exactly what he wants.But obviously, a demon would never be able to feel love on their own, so they have to dosomethingto ensure that Crowley will reciprocate Aziraphale's feelings…
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: All the Love Within Me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749163
Comments: 394
Kudos: 483
Collections: Good Omens (Complete works)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This one's set somewhere in the late 80s/early 90s and follows show canon of the Apocalypse being scheduled for 2019.
> 
> Inspiration from this kinkmeme prompt: https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=1634649#cmt1634649
> 
> There's a key detail or two that I changed from the original prompt, but I think it's still very much in the same spirit.
> 
> As always, if there's anything you feel I should have tagged for but haven't, please drop me a line!

The bell above the bookshop door jangled out its merry tune, announcing a visitor. Grumbling a little under his breath, Aziraphale set down the book he was reading and set it aside, ready to hover unhelpfully by the new customer's shoulder until they left.

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel greeted with a too-wide grin and raised eyebrows, like he was surprised to find the Principality in his own bookshop. "Just the angel I was looking for!"

Aziraphale nervously straightened his waistcoat. "Ah– Gabriel," he stammered. "What a lovely surprise. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

The Archangel couldn't be here for his quarterly report; Aziraphale had submitted the last one not fifteen years ago, the next one wasn't due for another decade.

"The demon Crowley," Gabriel said, apropos of nothing as he strode further into the bookshop. Aziraphale made a half-hearted gesture towards the back room. "You've run into him a quite a lot over the years, haven't you?"

Alarm bells began clanging loudly in Aziraphale's head. "On occasion," he hazarded as he trailed along in Gabriel's wake. "Earth is only so large, after all, and we are each the only representatives of our respective sides permanently stationed on Earth, we were always bound to, ah, bump into one another, now and then. He really is rather good at what he does. Or, bad at it, as it were." He tried for a nervous smile but doubted that it reached his eyes. "Gives me plenty to do in the fight against evil. Lots of wiles to thwart, and–and whatnot."

Gabriel's responding smile was entirely too knowing. It was an unsettling expression on the Archangel's usually rather vapid face. "Sounds like you've got quite a bit of respect for him," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"A healthy amount, I should think," Aziraphale replied quickly, the heart he didn't need picking up a few extra beats per minute. "It wouldn't do to underestimate the enemy, after all."

"Of course." Gabriel nodded. "Still, it's one thing to respect your enemies, but it's another to do what you've done. I have to admit, I was more than a little surprised when I found out you actually _love_ him."

Aziraphale froze, his whirring mind coming to a sudden, screeching halt. He faltered, for several seconds too long, then plastered what even he knew was an entirely unconvincing smile onto his face. "Well, yes, of course I love him," he said desperately. The conviction on Gabriel's face was rock solid, there was no point denying it. "I–I love all things created by God, as is my charge, a–and demons _were_ created by Her, before they Fell–"

"Aziraphale," Gabriel said, giving him an indulgent, vaguely patronising smile.

"Yes, Gabriel?" he offered weakly, pressing a hand as subtly as he could against the side table next to him to keep himself from collapsing entirely.

"We both know it's more than that. That you're _in_ love with him." Gabriel looked at him with pity. He'd given Aziraphale looks like that before, but never had they cut this deep. "Aziraphale. He's a _demon_. They're not meant to love. You had to know what you were getting yourself into."

"I didn't..."

"Demons lost the ability to love when they Fell," Gabriel continued, in a tone he no doubt thought was gentle. "Without the light of God within them, they can't produce any love of their own."

Aziraphale could feel his knees starting to buckle despite his wishes. "I never said I expected him to reciprocate," he said, voice shaking, and Gabriel smiled again.

"Of course not. He wouldn't be able to, not unless he was filled with the light of God again."

A shuddering breath caught in Aziraphale's throat and stayed there, too terrified to draw in fresh air. 

Gabriel couldn't be suggesting that Crowley had Risen. Aziraphale would have sensed it, he knew he would have. A demon reascending to the ranks of Heaven was tantamount to a cosmic realignment, there would have been a surge of divine energy, aftershocks, _something_.

Which left the far more likely possibility that when Gabriel said that he planned on filling Crowley up with the light of God, he really meant that he intended to fill him up with something blessed.

Aziraphale leant a little harder against the table as his mind supplied him with the horrifying image of Gabriel pouring holy water down Crowley's throat, leaving the demon unable to even scream properly as he was destroyed from the inside out–

"What are you going to do to him?" Aziraphale whispered, staggering his way to an armchair a few paces to his left and sinking down into it like a ship shattered against rocky cliffs. He didn't trust his legs to keep him upright much longer.

"Oh, it's already done," Gabriel said flippantly, and Aziraphale's world came crashing down around his ears. He didn't even have space to feel some small relief that he was already seated. "Do you want to see what we've done with him? I've got him ready to be brought here."

Aziraphale stared. What, had they collected the melted remains of Crowley's body to present to him as a reminder of his place? Surely Heaven wasn't so cruel?

Gabriel's face flickered with annoyance. "We're doing you a favour, here, Aziraphale, the least you could do is show a little more gratitude."

Aziraphale bit down hard on his bottom lip to keep in an outraged sob, staring down at his hands to keep Gabriel from seeing the tears gathering along his lashes.

The Archangel raised his eyebrows, either indifferent to or entirely unaware of the inner anguish locking Aziraphale in place. Knowing Gabriel, it was probably the latter. "Well?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said, without moving his eyes, without even meaning to move his lips. "I'd like to see him, please."

What they'd do to Crowley's remains if he didn't collect them didn't bear thinking about.

"Great," Gabriel said, spreading his arms wide then clapping his hands together, clasping them like he was giving himself a handshake for a well-executed business deal. "You'll like this, you really will," he promised, beginning to back out into the main section of the shop. "Just sit tight, I'll get him brought in."

Aziraphale watched him go, fingernails digging so deep into the arms of his chair that he tore through the fabric, stuffing bursting out around his fingers.

He would not cry. He would not wail, or scream, or sob, or beg for an explanation for how Heaven could possibly consider destroying the person Aziraphale loved most an act of mercy. Gabriel wouldn't understand his tears, anyway, or he would just dismiss them as a suffering necessary for the greater good. He wouldn't even realise how cruel he was being, would be convinced that he actually was helping Aziraphale by saving him from the wicked temptations of a demon, which really just made it worse. It wasn't like Aziraphale would ever be able to convince him otherwise.

No, he would hold it together until the Archangel left. Then he would shutter the bookshop, hold whatever was left of Crowley close, and wait until the Apocalypse came and destroyed him.

"Here we are!" Gabriel announced proudly, steering Crowley into the room by his shoulders.

Aziraphale finally started breathing again.

They hadn't destroyed Crowley. There wasn't a mark on him, at least that Aziraphale could see, no outward indication that he was in any sort of pain, only a slight anxiety as his gaze searched the room. Aziraphale felt near dizzy with relief, glad again that he was already seated.

The smile that lit up Crowley's face when his eyes landed on Aziraphale was utterly breathtaking, filled with an unbridled, open joy that made Aziraphale's heart do all sorts of funny little twists and turns in his chest.

Even that sensation, though, had nothing on how Aziraphale felt when Crowley murmured, voice soft and filled with reverent devotion, "Aziraphale, angel…

"I love you."


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for some dub/noncon elements in this chapter; nothing overtly sexual/explicit, more in the vein of unwanted touch.

Crowley hadn't been expecting to be ambushed by angels. Although, he supposed the whole point of an ambush was that you didn't see it coming.

Still, it was a little embarrassing, how easily they overpowered him, binding his powers and dragging him up to Heaven.

His sunglasses had been knocked off in the short-lived struggle, and now he squinted against the brightness of Heaven, the divinity of it slightly burning his eyes.

"Come on, lads, no need for this, is there?" he asked, hating the slight tremor in his voice as two blank-faced angels, one on each arm, firmly escorted him to an equally blank door.

Predictably, there was no response, the angels remaining completely silent as one of them reached for the door handle. Crowley made a half-hearted attempt to slip his hands free of the golden rope encircling his wrists, but the inherent malleability of his corporeal form was no match for a divine binding.

The door opened and Crowley was unceremoniously shoved inside, closing behind him just as quickly.

The room could have been any of a number of high-level executive boardrooms on Earth, if not for the fact that the view out the floor-to-ceiling windows was an impossible collection of landmarks, and that the room was entirely bare save for the two Archangels stood at its exact centre.

"The demon Crowley," Gabriel proclaimed, something like anticipation glowing in his face. "We've heard some very interesting things about the foul deeds you've been carrying out on Earth."

Uriel gave him a thin smile with absolutely no warmth behind it. "We thought it about time that we addressed it."

Crowley turned in what he already knew would be a futile attempt to run, only to come face to face with the Archangel Michael.

He gulped, not wanting to think too hard on the fact that he hadn't even heard her enter the room.

Crowley remembered Michael. He hadn't seen her toss Lucifer down to Hell himself, a bit too preoccupied by his own Grace being torn out as his feathers burnt through to black, but he'd seen flashes of the two of them fighting, beautiful and terrible in their heavenly regalia. She looked no less deadly now than she did then.

"We understand you've been trying to tempt the Principality, Aziraphale," she told him, with a calm certainly that told him any sort of denial would be met with extreme scepticism, and possibly the business end of a sword.

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

_Also, fuck._

"'Course. Just doing my job, aren't I?" Crowley plastered on his smarmiest grin as he lied through his teeth. Fear still made him back away from Michael on pure instinct, even as he knew it would just bring him closer to the Archangels behind him. "I'm the Original Tempter, after all," he added, fighting to keep his frantic desperation from his voice as Michael matched him step for step. "Not that that seems to be counting for much in this situation, don't think I've ever met anyone so resistant to my many charms." If they intended to use him as a reason to have Aziraphale cast out of Heaven, then he would do everything in his power to make sure they failed. Even if he himself was probably doomed, he wasn't about to drag Aziraphale down with him. "Did God decide to make him extra stubborn just to mess with me, or what?"

Gabriel's face did some interesting things before he forced it to smooth out into civility. "So, you're saying your attempts at… _seducing_ a member of the Host haven't been successful?"

Crowley snorted. "Nope," he replied, popping the 'p', ignoring the voice in his head screaming how stupid it was of him to be turning his back on Michael. "Don't you think I'd be rubbing it in your faces if they had? Or that he wouldn't still be reporting to you if he'd succumbed to temptation? Wish I hadn't come up with the idea to try in the first place, if I'm being honest, my continuing failure in that particular area is not going over well with Head Office."

Uriel quirked an eyebrow. "The fact that Aziraphale's fallen in love with you hasn't scored you any points Downstairs?"

The laconic smile on Crowley's face froze. "Sorry, what?"

Aziraphale being in love with him wasn't news. Heaven knowing about it definitely was, though, and it was alarming news, at that. Crowley wasn't altogether hopeful that they wouldn't consider such a thing as an aberration.

Gabriel gave him a disdainful look. "Like you didn't know. You saw him, alone, stationed far from his home, and thought you'd be able to take advantage of him. You thought you'd be able to take something as pure as an angel's love and twist it until it broke and he Fell."

"Sounds so gauche when you put it like that," Crowley said mildly, hoping that his abject fear wasn't as obvious as he thought it was. At least it didn't seem like they viewed Aziraphale's love for him as something inexcusable, just pitiable. And that Crowley's callousness was apparently convincing enough that the Archangels didn't question his lies. It wasn't like they were likely to believe the truth, anyway.

This was fine. Better, even. Regardless of what punishment was surely in store for him, at least it meant Aziraphale would be spared the same.

"You don't find your actions reprehensible?" Michael asked, still with that deceptive calm to her voice. "Taking someone's trust and devotion and attempting to use it against them?"

Crowley barely kept himself from laughing wildly. Oh, wasn't _that_ rich.

He shrugged instead. "Like I said, just following orders."

"Like you said," Uriel pointed out, "it was your idea."

Crowley winced internally. That had been a bad lie to tell. Bless him for trying to be clever, why hadn't he just pretended that he was a cog in the wheel? Why tell them he'd masterminded the whole bloody thing? "Well…" he began, but trailed off, unable to think of anything to his defence that wouldn't give the game away. It would only be delaying the inevitable, really. He just hoped they'd discorporate him and be done with it, rather than any more permanent solutions.

Michael nodded slowly. "It's about as we thought, then."

"Right," Gabriel said, clapping his hands together. "I'll get us started."

He strode over to Crowley, closing the distance so rapidly that Crowley barely managed two steps back before Gabriel's mouth was pressed against his.

Crowley was so utterly flummoxed by the sudden turn of events that he let Gabriel kiss him for a good few seconds, only jerking back when the Archangel's tongue swiped along his bottom lip, trying to coax his mouth open.

"What," Crowley spluttered, lips tingling strangely as he stared wide-eyed at the assembled Archangels. "What is happening."

"I would have thought that was already clear," Michael told him primly.

It was then Crowley realised the tingling in his lips wasn't fading. If anything, it was intensifying, warmth spreading into his mouth and rolling down his throat. "What," he tried again, but now it felt like he was trying to talk through a mouthful of honey. He stumbled away, struggling to keep all three Archangels in his line of sight, unwilling to take his eyes off them, but his feet caught on one another and he began to topple backwards.

Michael darted forward, catching him under the elbow, letting out a fussing, motherly sound that made it all the more jarring when she swooped down to kiss him as well. The warmth spread through him, deeper and deeper, spilling over from his corporeal form to his celestial one. The warmth swirled and coiled, settling into the abyss where his Grace had once resided, and with a jolt, Crowley realised exactly what it was they were doing to him.

They were pouring divinity directly into his soul.

"Why," he choked out, but the word was garbled into incomprehensibility.

This didn't make any sense. It wasn't like just topping him up with their own divinity would make Crowley Rise, if that's what they were after. It didn't work like that. The divinity they were forcing into him didn't belong there, it would just end up leaking back out after a fashion. He'd Fallen for a reason, unfair as that reason still seemed to him, there wasn't anyone but God who could reverse a decision like that. In any case, he figured there'd be a lot more pomp and circumstance about the whole affair if that was what was going on.

Not to mention, he couldn't see why admitting to attempting to seduce an angel to make them Fall – even if it was an utter lie – would have made the Archangels want him to Rise in the first place.

Knowing what they were doing – if not _why_ – just left Crowley more confused. He would have expected something like this to hurt. He almost _wanted_ it to hurt, because at least that would have made sense. Instead, it did the opposite, soothing an aching, hollow longing deep within him that he'd long since learnt to ignore. Dimly, he gave a mental wince at how it was going to feel to have that divinity slowly drain back out of him, like a lingering echo of his Fall.

"Why," he wheezed again as Uriel took hold of him by the collar and reeled him in for a kiss of her own.

He must have pronounced the word clearly enough this time for it to make sense. "He mustn't love you for your wit," Uriel said dryly. "Well. At least you're not objectionable to look at, so I suppose you've got that going for you."

Backhanded compliment aside, that still didn't do much to elucidate his situation. " _Why_ ," he gasped once more, and Uriel rolled her eyes, moving back to give Michael space to close in on him.

"Like we said," Uriel told him, a burr of annoyance at the edges of her tone, "for… _whatever_ reason, Aziraphale's gone and fallen in love with you. So, because you're a demon, and entirely incapable of loving him back, we're going to fill you with divinity until you do. Your punishment will be his reward."

Oh. Well–

Hm.

There was rather a lot to unpack from that.

First and foremost, there was the assertion that Crowley didn't love Aziraphale, which was just plain _rude_ , if you asked him. He'd been rather catastrophically in love with Aziraphale for centuries, now, he was almost insulted that they couldn't tell how utterly pathetic he actually was.

Second, and growing stronger by the minute as Gabriel's lips descended on his once more, there was a budding hope that since the Archangels were apparently willing to sign off on it, that maybe this would be the nudge Aziraphale needed to be able to openly declare his affection for Crowley.

Third, and standing in exact opposition to the second point, was the fear that had been Crowley's constant companion since before the Arrangement had even been coaxed to life - that whatever Crowley had to offer Aziraphale would be too much, too soon, too _fast_.

Fourth… he wasn't sure, really. He was starting to lose track of his mental tally, so lost in the glorious heat being pressed into him by a multitude of kisses that he'd given up trying to count.

"What good is such a pretty corporation on a demon, anyway?" Gabriel asked, threading his fingers through the fiery locks of Crowley's hair and gently but firmly pulling it taut. Crowley managed to find some space to be mortified by the soft moan that escaped him at the sensation. "Seems a bit vain, to me. But I guess that's probably the whole point."

Dizzily, Crowley wondered if Gabriel even registered how much of a bloody hypocrite he was being right now.

"Humans are simple. They're more likely to listen to someone with a pretty face than an ugly one," Uriel remarked, touch lingering along the curve of Crowley's jaw. "Having an attractive corporation makes his job easier."

"Won't be his job anymore, once we're done here," Gabriel reminded her. "His only job will be to love Aziraphale, and to do as he says." He stroked Crowley's ear with his thumb. "Doesn't that sound nice, demon?"

It did, of course, it sounded very nice indeed, but Crowley still wasn't huge on how sinister Gabriel made it sound, intentionally or not. He tried to tell them that they didn't need to be going to all this trouble, really, Crowley was already over the moon for the angel, so using divinity to influence him to love Aziraphale was an exercise in futility, but he couldn't seem to muster the coordination to speak.

Satan, but they were really doing a number on him.

Uriel moved in close, pouring more divine light down Crowley's throat. "He's gotten very compliant already, even Aziraphale shouldn't have any trouble with him," she remarked when she pulled back again. She frowned. "You don't think this will be indulging him too much, do you?"

"Of course not," Gabriel said, fingers sliding under Crowley's chin and tilting his head back. Crowley helplessly twisted within Gabriel's grip, powerless to resist the umpteenth light-filled kiss being pressed against him. "Aziraphale's been on Earth almost six thousand years now, fighting the good fight, denying himself this demon's temptations the whole time. Why shouldn't we see to it that his patience is rewarded?"

The intensity of Michael's next kiss made Crowley's knees buckle, and he would have collapsed completely if not for the three Archangels supporting him. "This is definitely the best of our options," she said pragmatically. "It isn't Aziraphale's fault for falling in love with a demon, and using holy water to destroy him would only break Aziraphale's heart. We certainly can't go and convince him to change his feelings for the demon, we're not in the business of purposefully _reducing_ the amount of love in the world, after all." She gave Crowley another searing kiss, one that left him chasing weakly after her when she pulled back. "So, if we can't destroy him, and can't change how Aziraphale feels, our only option is to change how the demon feels."

"Hm," Uriel said. "I suppose we've gone this far already, it would be a waste to stop now."

Crowley wanted to protest that he wasn't actually going to be able to withstand much more of this, but he was already so far gone that his tongue refused to form the words. All he could do was submit as Uriel's mouth slotted against his, heavenly love flowing into him.

Then he went under completely, drowning in the warm embrace of unconsciousness as his eyes rolled back into his head.


	3. Chapter 2

Crowley came to with the sweet-sharp sting of a slap to the face. His vision was a hazy blur, his mind seeming to process what he was seeing at least a half-second after it occurred.

A voice swam through the murky haze to filter through his ears. "You still in there, demon?"

Crowley let out a groan in response, and it felt like a triumph to even muster that much.

His eyes fluttered shut again, lids heavy like they'd been weighted down with gold coins. His corporation felt tight, overstuffed, like pressing his skin in the wrong place would make the divinity he'd been filled with come pouring out of him. If he'd been able to gather the will to check, he wouldn't have been surprised to find his skin cracked and glowing.

He sensed one of the Archangels moving in to force more divinity into him, and he swivelled blindly towards them, despite his doubts that there was even any space left to fill, that his corporation – and potentially his true self – would rip and tear, divinity spilling from his sundered body in waves as he was obliterated from within.

Apparently, they agreed, because no kiss was forthcoming. He slowly blinked his eyes open to find Michael assessing him critically.

"That's as much as we're going to be able to do," she announced, undoing the binds on his wrists and stepping back.

Crowley let out a soft groan of both relief and disappointment, sagging back into Gabriel's arms. There was so much heavenly light crammed into him that he swore he could feel some of it spilling over his lips. Either that, or he was drooling. There was a distinct possibility that it was both.

He tried to at least get his feet under himself, so that he could stop hanging from Gabriel's grip like an idiot, but the divinity had gone needle-sharp within him, jamming into his joints and stabbing at his insides when he tried to do anything more than lift his head.

"Don't tell me we've overdone it," Uriel muttered.

"He's fine," Gabriel assured, letting go of him. "See?"

Crowley promptly slumped to the floor with a quiet whimper.

Gabriel frowned down at him. "All right, that's not ideal." He nudged Crowley with his foot. "Sit up," he ordered.

With a groan, Crowley complied, peeling his torso up from the floor despite the arching pain that lanced up his spine, arms hanging limply.

Uriel's lip curled up in disgust. "And what are we meant to do with him like this?"

"It'll be fine," Gabriel assured, nudging Crowley with his foot again. "Hey. Demon." He waited impatiently for Crowley to fix his bleary eyes on the Archangels towering over him. "Do you love Aziraphale?"

"Yes," Crowley rasped. Despite it being the truth – despite it having been the truth for a long, long time – the word felt like it had been ripped from him against his will.

Gabriel smiled, pleased. "Good," he murmured. "And you're going do whatever he asks you to, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, anything he wants, absolutely anything, anything at all," Crowley babbled, nodding so furiously that he might have given himself spinal damage were he human. His head lolled a bit after, the overload of divinity leaving him limp and pliant.

"I told you," Gabriel said, addressing the other Archangels smugly.

Uriel looked down at Crowley, unimpressed. "You're going to have to stand up," she said. "We can't give you to Aziraphale if you're just going to lay on the floor in a useless heap."

Crowley frowned and blinked, trying to clear the sticky fog from his mind. He tried to move, to push past the mental block the pain caused, but it was like leaden weights had been strapped to all of his limbs.

Michael gave him a stern look. "You were given an instruction, demon. It doesn't bode well for you if you refuse to follow it."

"'M trying," Crowley mumbled, staring intently at his hand, fighting to so much as make his fingers twitch. Apparently fine motor control was currently beyond him.

"You might be right, Uriel," she sighed. "We certainly can't let him anywhere near Aziraphale if he isn't going to behave obediently. I have to say, this is a rather disappointing result."

"It'll work," Gabriel insisted. He crouched down, clicking his fingers a few times in front of Crowley's face to get him to focus. "You love Aziraphale, right?"  
  
"Yes," Crowley gasped again, eyes itching and chest tightening at the prospect of never being allowed to see his angel again.

"Prove it," Gabriel told him. "If you love him as much as you say you do, you'll get up, right now."

Crowley whimpered, his entire being screaming at him to stop as he turned his hands over, palms pressing hard against the floor as he got on his hands and knees. He mentally retracted his earlier thought – he really _, really_ wished this didn't hurt again, because the pain was encroaching on unbearable, only eclipsed by what it had felt like to Fall. He could feel all that divinity crowding up against his skin, searing his insides with every movement, threatening to tear through him completely until there was nothing left. He used the pain to fuel him; the sooner he did as he was told, the sooner he could stop moving, stop hurting.

The sooner they'd take him to Aziraphale.

His legs trembled as he got one foot underneath him, then the other, breath coming in wet gasps as he forced himself to straighten. The divinity kept shearing away at him as he sweated and shook, fighting not to make a sound lest it make the Archangels reconsider taking him to Aziraphale.

Michael gave him a pensive up and down. "He does still seem to be struggling to contain the divinity we've bestowed upon him, something has to be done about that," she said. "I'm sure that Aziraphale would be upset if he thought this process had been painful for the demon."

Crowley let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob before he could stop himself.

Yeah, it definitely tracked that they were more concerned about the look of the thing than whether Crowley was actually in pain.

Uriel stepped forward with the barest of irate sighs, cupping his face with both hands. Crowley had a moment of eager dread, hoping and fearing that she was about to pour more divinity into him regardless of his capacity to handle it. Instead, her eyes closed, fingers pressing a little harder against Crowley's skin.

Something within him snapped, like a rubber band exceeding the point of maximum tension, and he would have screamed if he could have remembered how. His mouth opened anyway, but no sound came out, his vision crowded out by brilliant white light. For a few dreadful moments, he thought his sight had been taken from him, then the light began to separate back out into vague shapes. Spots danced in his vision as it slowly returned to him, the three grey blobs before him gradually coalescing back into the Archangels. The divinity roiling within him settled, no longer threatening to make him burst at the seams, and he let out a shaky sigh of relief. "Can I see Aziraphale now?" he asked hopefully, already taking a few slightly wobbly steps towards the door.

"Hold on just a second, there, champ," Gabriel said, grabbing him by the shoulders reeling him back. "We've gotta go give Aziraphale the good news first before you show up, OK?"

So saying, Gabriel gave an exaggerated wink and disappeared in a rapid flash of lightning. Crowley gave the two remaining Archangels a nervous smile, still not entirely convinced that they'd change their minds and just smite him anyway.

"Thank you," he found himself saying, much to his horror. Uriel raised an aloof eyebrow at him. "I–I mean, for letting me love Aziraphale, instead of, y'know…" He trailed off, both from mortification at how patently uncool he was currently being, and because he didn't want to give them any ideas.

Michael gave him a look like she thought a grateful demon was a mildly amusing oddity. "Heaven is merciful," she told him, and Crowley would have laughed if not for how poorly that would end for him. "And filling you with divinity like this still effectively removes an agent from Hell's ranks. After all, you won't be tempting humans to sin anymore, will you? You'll be far too busy doing as Aziraphale bids."

The prospect would have had appeal for him even without the metaphysical love potion he'd been force-fed, so with it he was an utter goner. He still had a stupid little grin on his face when a brief hum of static electricity and the smell of ozone announced Gabriel's return.

"We're all set," Gabriel told them happily, grabbing Crowley by the shoulders and giving him a friendly squeeze. "Aziraphale's so happy about all this that he was practically weeping with joy when I left him, just imagine how he's going to react when he actually sees what we've done with you, huh?"

All the hairs on Crowley's arms stood to attention, crackling with static electricity as Gabriel gave his shoulders another squeeze and transported them both down to Earth.

The scent of leather, old paper, and that weird mould smell that Aziraphale purposefully cultivated in an attempt to deter potential customers hit Crowley's nose, welcoming him home like an old friend. Gabriel began to steer him towards the back room, and Crowley barely kept himself from eagerly surging forward out of the Archangel's grip, just to be with Aziraphale those few seconds sooner. Gabriel kept a firm hold, though, showing Crowley off like he was some sort of project he was particularly proud of.

"Here we are!" Gabriel said, and Crowley barely heard him as his searching gaze fell on Aziraphale.

The soft illumination of a tableside lamp lit Aziraphale's hair up like a halo, his eyes a stormy grey. There was an indescribable amount of relief in those eyes, and Crowley felt weak at the knees under their gaze.

He'd known Aziraphale had loved him for a long, long time. He'd realised it possibly before Aziraphale himself had, but always tried not to push too far, so sure that Heaven ever finding out about it would spell disaster for the angel.

Crowley had never been so glad to be wrong.

He felt the divinity rise within him, urging him towards his purpose. A smile curved on his lips, and he wouldn't have been surprised to find that he was actually glowing. "Aziraphale, angel," he murmured, feeling the deep well of emotion within him spilling over with anticipation. "I love you."

For the briefest, sweetest moment, there was a look of such intense elation on Aziraphale's face that it nearly rivalled Crowley's own. Then the angel's expression clouded over, gaze shifting over to Gabriel, who was still beaming expectantly by Crowley's shoulder.

"Gabriel," he asked softly, tremulously, "What is this?"

"Keep up, Aziraphale!" Gabriel replied, intolerably smug. "I told you. He was never going to be able to love you on his own, so we... helped him along. Gave him a little top-up of divinity."

Crowley felt a twitch of annoyance that Gabriel still sounded so assured that Crowley didn't love Aziraphale of his own volition. And he really didn't like the expression on Aziraphale's face now, of something hunted desperately trying to pretend it wasn't prey. Crowley could see him misinterpreting Crowley's feelings in all this in real time, already drawing the wrong conclusions, already bracing himself for a hurt he didn't have to feel.

"It's not permanent, of course," Gabriel continued, oblivious. "You'll have to renew the divinity within him yourself to keep him in line. You can handle that, can't you?"

"I…" Aziraphale's gaze drifted from Gabriel back to Crowley, and he nodded jerkily. "Yes, absolutely, I won't need any help there."

"Can I go to him?" Crowley asked, eager for the Archangel to be gone, to explain everything properly to Aziraphale, to finally share in the love he'd spent so long hiding.

Gabriel laughed, giving his shoulders another squeeze but not letting him go. "See, Aziraphale? Look how polite and obedient he is now! He'll do or say anything you want him to, he's entirely devoted to you."

"I… see," Aziraphale choked out, looking like he'd just eaten an entire lemon.

An exasperated furrow formed in Gabriel's brow. "Aren't you grateful for this gift, Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale all but shot out of his chair, a brief flash of intense fear sparking in his eyes before he reassembled his expression into something more appreciative. "Yes, of course, so sorry, I'm just– overwhelmed, I…" He nodded a few times, clearly trying to keep himself from completely spiralling into panic. "Thank you so much for this… gift." He hesitated a little on the last word, obviously finding the concept of Crowley as an object to be given as disagreeable as Crowley did.

"Of course," Gabriel said magnanimously. "Love is the greatest gift, after all." He gave Crowley a pat on the back. "Off you go."  
  
Crowley didn't need telling twice. He all but raced over to Aziraphale, arms outstretched.

A look of slight panic entered Aziraphale's eyes, the way he raised his own arms almost seeming defensive. Despite everything within Crowley urging him to sweep Aziraphale into a passionate kiss, he managed to reason with himself that Aziraphale's reaction indicated the angel needed a proper explanation first. Not to mention that Aziraphale might have some understandable qualms about having his boss be audience to their first kiss. Instead, he grinned giddily as Aziraphale's arms caught his own. The touch alone was electric, goosebumps rippling out along Crowley's flesh under the gentle press of Aziraphale's fingertips.

"I'll let you two get to it," Gabriel told them with a wink, then vanished, leaving them blessedly alone.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gonna earn that Angst tag today, folks, strap in!

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, an irrepressible smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He couldn't remember ever feeling this free; it was intoxicating. "I love you."

Aziraphale flinched. "Crowley, please, take a seat," he said quietly, nodding to an armchair across from the one he'd been occupying when Crowley arrived.

He let go of Crowley's arms, and the absence of contact felt like losing a limb. 

Crowley wanted to protest, but his feet were already carrying him towards the chair he'd been directed to. He flung himself down into it with perhaps a touch more aggravated petulance than normal, given that he didn't really have a choice in the matter. Aziraphale sagged back into his own seat, a haggard expression on his face, like he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to muster the energy to rise again.

"I don't..." Aziraphale's voice was weak, wavering, and entirely unconvincing. "Heaven has... misunderstood my feelings for you. Ours has always been a purely business arrangement."

Crowley couldn't help but burst out laughing. The denial barely sparked any retaliatory sensations from the divinity within him for how false the protest had sounded. "You know you're an awful liar, don't you? I've seen the way you look at me, you certainly don't go all doe-eyed when you're looking at Gabriel." He gave Aziraphale a fond smile. "Credit to you, that you even managed to lie at all, being an angel. Always knew you were a bit of a bastard under all that righteousness. 'S why I fell in love with you in the first place."

His words didn't seem to make Aziraphale feel any better. If anything, the angel looked as if he felt worse. "If that's truly how you felt, you would have said something before now," he said, only the slightest trace of uncertainty in his voice. Crowley latched onto it like a life preserver thrown to a man drowning. 

"Don't you think I've tried? You always pull away whenever I get too close." His voice cracked a little and he cleared his throat. "I never wanted to rush you, I just thought... I thought Heaven giving you the green light would have been the only thing stopping you."

Aziraphale swallowed hard, not meeting Crowley's eyes as his shoulders slumped downward. 

"It's OK, angel," Crowley soothed, leaning forward as far as his seat would allow. He ached to reach out, to touch, but he couldn't, not when Aziraphale had so nicely asked him to sit. "You've got permission, now, you don't have to hide how you feel for me." His lips quirked up. "Not that you ever did that good of a job of it to begin with. You've got a big, heavenly seal of approval, now, the Archangels practically certified it themselves. What's stopping you?"

Aziraphale's voice was thin and tremulous. "What of Hell? They've taken no such stance, and I can't imagine they ever would," he protested. "What do you imagine they would do to you if they found out?"

"Doesn't matter," Crowley shrugged. "You'd be safe, that's all I care about."

Aziraphale let out a choked sound.

"They probably wouldn't do anything, even if they did find out," Crowley cajoled, immediately changing tack as he sensed Aziraphale's distress was only rising. He'd thought that Aziraphale would have been easier to convince than this, given how his initial protest had been so wavering. He should have known better; the angel was stubborn as they came. He swallowed, feeling the divinity within him begin to ratchet up the tension. "They wouldn't understand, they'd think I couldn't possibly _want_ to be with you like this. They'd probably think it an apt punishment for letting myself get caught in the first place."

"But you _don't_ want to be with me like this, you just think you do!" Aziraphale's voice was a near-sob, eyes glimmering with tears as he finally deigned to look at Crowley again. 

This wasn't working.

All the divine energy that had been crammed into Crowley suddenly rose and swelled and broke, demanding that he supplicate himself before the angel, beg for mercy, for compassion, to take pity on him instead of turning him out into the cold like this. 

So he did. 

He slid out of his chair and fell to his knees, hands clasped beseechingly before him without his direction. The voice inside him shrieking that he was disobeying Aziraphale's order was drowned out by the one wailing at being rejected. He could hear his pulse roaring in his ears, hammering out a rapid, steady two-beat: _too fast, too fast, too fast_.

There was nothing he could do but cling on for dear life as he careened over the point of no return. 

"If you won't believe me, then can't you– can't you just pretend?" he asked desperately, feeling all the love that filled him threatening to swallow him whole if it continued on, unrequited, especially when he knew how much it must be killing Aziraphale to deny him. "Just pretend it's all right. Please, I'll do anything."

Aziraphale looked at him like he'd just suggested they light the bookshop on fire. " _Pretend_?"

Crowley licked his lips and shuffled a little closer. "Please," he confirmed. "For me. I know I don't deserve it, but I promise, I'll do whatever you like, anything you tell me, anything at all."

Crowley could love him so well, if only Aziraphale would let him. He'd hold him close, whisper all the sweet nothings he ever could have dreamt of in his ear, give the angel absolutely anything he asked for. He'd do such a good job of it that Aziraphale would forget about the fact that the Archangels had effectively forced them into this. 

It wasn't like Aziraphale would actually need to top up the divinity within him to keep Crowley in love with him, so after enough time had passed, it wouldn't be like it would matter, anyway. 

"It wouldn't be right of me, Crowley. You can't say no to me, not in the state you're in."

"How is that any different from what you do?" Crowley begged. "If God asked you to do something, you wouldn't say no, because of your love for Her. The result's the same."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale scolded, scandalised. "It isn't the _same_! The love you feel for me _isn't real_!"

No matter how many times Aziraphale said it, Crowley knew that every time the words would flay him open anew. The divinity twisted and snarled within him, setting him alight from inside with righteous indignation at his purpose being denied. Even as it seized hold of him and put words in his mouth, though, he knew that a good deal of the anger and frustration he was feeling was entirely his own.

"Why does it bloody matter!" he shouted, hands balling up into fists as he stood. "I could make you happy, if you’d let me. _I'd_ be happy. Why does it matter to you where you think the feeling comes from?"

Tears pricked Aziraphale's eyes. "Because I'd still know you'd been robbed of your own say in it! That you wouldn't choose me if your mind was your own. It would be indescribably selfish of me, Crowley, it wouldn't be _right_ , you know it wouldn't."

Crowley laughed scornfully, words flowing from him without his control. "Oh, _now_ you want to talk about doing the right thing, hm? Were you doing the _right thing_ , befriending a demon in the first place? Letting me perform blessings on your behalf? Agreeing to do temptations on mine?" He moved in close, close enough to touch, eyes near luminous in the soft lamplit glow, voice dropping to a low murmur. "Let's not kid ourselves, angel, you do plenty of things you're not supposed to. Why should you let the fact that it isn't the right thing to do keep you now?"

Aziraphale shoved him away in a panic, like Crowley's very presence was burning him. Crowley fell back down to his knees and stayed there, looking imploringly up at Aziraphale. 

"Get up, Crowley," he choked out. "Just– stop _kneeling_ before me, as if I'm–"

"But I want to," Crowley said, even as he obligingly scrambled to his feet.

"Yes, well, I don't want you to!" Aziraphale retorted, turning away so that Crowley couldn't see his face.

"We both know you do," Crowley said softly. "You're going to have to try a lot harder than that if you want to lie to a demon." He moved in closer once more, because Aziraphale hadn't told him not to. "I would choose you, you know," he said. "Even without what the Archangels did to me. It's only ever been you, Aziraphale. I've been in love with you for millennia, I just never said anything because I was always so sure you would push me away–"

"Stop it."

Aziraphale's words were sharp and full of misery, and nonspecific enough that Crowley simply froze in place. Crowley looked at Aziraphale silently, pleadingly, and it finally seemed to dawn on Aziraphale exactly how much power he had over Crowley's actions whilst he was in his current state.

"N– No, I didn't mean–" Aziraphale shot to his feet, horrified, reaching out and taking Crowley's motionless hands in his own on instinct. "Crowley, please, speak and act freely, the last thing I want is to control you like this."

Crowley shifted, head angling down so that he could gaze at where their hands were joined, enraptured.

Aziraphale pulled away like he'd received an electric shock, and Crowley felt like a piece of himself was ripped away in the process.

The angel held himself very carefully, near-motionless, as if one wrong move would make him shatter like glass. "Crowley," he asked slowly, "if I were to ask you to go to your flat in Mayfair, would you be able to get yourself there safely? Would leaving cause you harm?"

Crowley felt himself go cold at the prospect.

"I don't want to leave," he replied tightly, and spiderweb cracks raced across Aziraphale's fragile expression.

"I know you don't," he said gently. "But you aren't currently in a position to be the most discerning about what you truly want. What is actually best for you. I only mean to say that…" He swallowed, looked down, twisting his ring around and around on his pinkie finger. "I'm loathe to suggest this, but perhaps it would be better for you to… sleep it off."

"I'm not _drunk_ ," Crowley protested.

"In a sense, I'm rather afraid you are," Aziraphale told him, slowly lifting his head to look at the demon. "Crowley. Please answer the question. Please tell me the truth."

The answer wrenched itself from Crowley's lips without his bidding. " I'm not going to dash out in front of a lorry because I'm too lovestruck to be paying attention. I can get to the flat if you tell me to go, and I'll be perfectly fine once I get there. I'm in love with you, not intoxicated.”

A complex set of emotions ran riot across Aziraphale's face, anguish winning out for a moment before he forced it down.

"Go home, Crowley," Aziraphale told him softly. "Please. For me."

The request hit him like a blow to the stomach. "That's low, angel," he hissed, but his feet were already moving of his own volition, carrying him towards the door.

Aziraphale blinked down at his hands again, shoulders hunched miserably, twisting the ring so hard that Crowley wouldn't be surprised to find that he was giving himself a friction burn. "Sleep well, my dear," he whispered, turning away as he likely fought the urge to look at Crowley again.

Crowley made an inarticulate noise at him, stuffing his hands into his pockets, then pulling one of them free again as he reached the door. The bell jangled as he wrestled it open, and Crowley couldn't help but take one last glance at Aziraphale's turned back, his slumped shoulders, his hanging head, before stepping out into the night, alone.

––––––––––––––––––––

The ring of the bell over the bookshop door as Crowley left sounded more like the solemn toll of a body collector.

Aziraphale stared forlornly at the door for a long while, guilt clawing at his chest as he found himself fervently wishing that Crowley would step back inside, declaring his love for Aziraphale once more, finding some way to prove it wasn't just because of the divinity that the Archangels had shoved down his throat.

Of course Aziraphale wanted it to be true, with a desperation that threatened to consume him. That all the secret kindnesses Crowley had shown him over the centuries meant that he wanted to share all of himself with Aziraphale, if only their circumstances would allow it. That Aziraphale wasn't being greedy in wanting such things from his friend. That Crowley would have given him such things freely long ago, if not for the fact that they were meant to be in opposition of one another.

But what if it _wasn't_ true? What if Crowley's confession truly had been borne of nothing but an artificial drive to please him, brought on by the divinity that had been forced into his soul? He certainly wouldn't have begged on his knees like he had if his will had been entirely his own. 

And if it _was_ true – a possibly that Aziraphale scarcely let himself dream, knowing that getting his hopes up only to have them dashed would utterly crush him – it was hardly much better. He didn't want Crowley to be blindly devoted to him; he wanted a relationship where they were equals, where Crowley was able to act on his own desires and not be forced to bow to Aziraphale's every whim.

Even if denying Crowley hurt them both in the short term, the long-term damage that taking advantage of Crowley's current state could cause was utterly unacceptable. Aziraphale would never forgive himself for betraying Crowley's trust when the demon was in such a vulnerable position.

No matter how much it made him ache in his very soul.

Aziraphale finally turned away from the door, heart heavy with want. He went methodically through the entire bookshop, switching off every light source and shuttering every blind until the shop was plunged into utter darkness. The layout of the shop was crystal clear in his mind after nearly two centuries of occupying it, and he made his way back to his favourite armchair by memory alone.

He sank down into it, wrapped in the silence of the myriad books surrounding him, and, with the tears he'd been holding back finally spilling over, waited for dawn.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sing-song voice* This fic is getting longerrrr~~ than I meant it to beeee~~~
> 
> On that note, I have bumped the rating up to M, as I ended up developing on some things a bit more than intended.

As the watery morning sunlight pushed weakly through the bookshop windows, Aziraphale finally made up his mind, and decided he was going to do something he'd sworn he would never do.

He was going to open the bookshop before 9am.

He just couldn't stand listlessly sitting around, miring himself in recriminations for getting Crowley into the mess he had. At least if the shop was open, there was the vague possibility that a customer would come in, and then Aziraphale would be able to occupy his attention with trying to get them to leave.

Not that he particularly wanted to talk anyone at the moment, but somehow the unbroken solitude seemed worse.

The weather was rather miserable out, anyway, he reasoned as he flipped over the sign in the window. Heavy clouds were stealing in from the west, and soon even the pitiful amount of sunlight fighting its way down to reach the streets of London would succumb to the storm. Even without the looming threat of rain, which admittedly Londoners tended to be fairly stalwart about ignoring, there was a bitter chill in the air as the calendar reluctantly slogged its way through January. Such cold generally dissuaded people from going outside without a purpose, which greatly cut down on the number of customers that would simply wander in on a whim.

Besides, he told himself as he unlocked the front door and opened it, swinging it inwards, all the most persistent humans that had tried to pry some of his collection from him over the years knew that he had never once opened early, so they would have no reason to think–

Crowley spilt forward into the bookshop, quite clearly having been curled up against the door until Aziraphale had opened it.

"'Morning, angel," Crowley greeted groggily, sliding his sunglasses up his nose as he gazed up at Aziraphale.

"Crowley, what–" Aziraphale blinked down at him, nonplussed, then noticed the deep wrinkles settled into the demon's jacket, the faint red line on his cheek indicating that he'd been leaning it against something for several hours. His heart clenched in his chest, his voice dropping into a quieter tone. "Have you been here all night?"

A flush that had nothing to do with the cold stole across Crowley's face. "Might've," he muttered, not moving from the stoop.

Oh, but this was even worse that Aziraphale had feared.

"I told you to go home," he said gently, trying to keep the words from wobbling. "Why did you spend the night on my doorstep instead of in Mayfair?"

Crowley shrugged. "'S more a flat where I sleep," he muttered. "'S not a home, not really. The closest I've got is here."

Aziraphale swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. He knew that Crowley was stretching the truth there a little, that he did consider the flat his home. But, clearly, he considered the bookshop his home as well, at least enough that he was able to stay when Aziraphale had told him to go home. Aziraphale wasn't sure if he was quite ready to begin processing that information. "Let's get you inside," he managed, reaching down to help Crowley up from the stoop, casting an anxious glance up the street. "Mrs Lewis down the road would have my head if she found out I'd left you out here in the– oh, _Crowley_ , your hands are like ice, you must be freezing!"

"It _is_ winter," Crowley said with a shrug, not seeming particularly bothered by the cold. In fact, the look Crowley was giving him was nothing short of achingly hopeful, as if he'd been willing to risk hypothermia if it meant that Aziraphale would hold his hand.

Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to let go just yet, drawing Crowley into the warmth of the bookshop.

The temperature did actually seem to be affecting Crowley despite his nonchalance, his movements sluggish as his stumbled over the shop's threshold. Aziraphale pushed down a distressed sound and led him over to one of the many plush armchairs, bidding him to sit down. He let go of Crowley's hands with reluctance, fetching the blanket thrown over the back of the couch and wrapping it around the demon's shivering shoulders. Crowley seemed to practically drink in the way Aziraphale was fussing over him, but really, what else could Aziraphale do? He certainly couldn't be so cruel as to leave the demon to his own devices when he was trembling like this.

"I'll make you something hot to drink, warm you right up, just sit tight," Aziraphale said, because Crowley was still shaking, and it was only a matter of time before the demon suggested they cuddle to help restore his body heat. Aziraphale wasn't sure he'd be able to trust himself with the offer, much less bring himself to let Crowley go if he started holding him.

He bustled off to the kitchenette just off the back room, flicking on the kettle and pulling out the coffee he kept in the cupboard there. He didn't drink it himself; it was there for the occasions that Crowley wanted a caffeine boost amidst the alcohol that he typically consumed when visiting Aziraphale of an evening. Aziraphale decided to eschew the whiskey that usually got added to the coffee this time around, though, feeling that getting Crowley drunk was just going to be detrimental to the situation.

The routine of preparing the coffee was familiar enough to be soothing, easing Aziraphale to the point where his smile was almost entirely genuine as he carried the steaming mug back to Crowley.

His smile dimmed a little at the way Crowley was perched at the very edge of his seat, so very clearly wanting to disobey Aziraphale's unthinking earlier instruction to stay where he was. He'd have to be more careful of his wording in future.

Crowley watched him approach anxiously, and Aziraphale forced a smile back on.

"I made you a coffee," he said unnecessarily, holding the mug out for Crowley to take. "If you'd like one, that is," he tacked on hurriedly, releasing that he hadn't actually asked, and if he told Crowley to drink up now, he'd do so regardless of whether he actually wanted it or not.

"Yeah, thanks," Crowley said, goosebumps breaking out over his exposed wrists as he wrapped his fingers around the mug, cradling the warmth close to him. Being a demon as he was, drinking a scalding hot liquid didn't blister his throat the way it would for a human, and he drank the coffee steadily, draining the mug in a matter of minutes.

Aziraphale sat and fidgeted, knowing how inappropriate it was for him to be watching the long column of Crowley's throat work as the demon swallowed, no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much Crowley would tell him that it was all right. He kept his gaze resolutely glued to his hands, and so didn't notice that once the coffee was gone, Crowley had slipped from his seat, crawling over to Aziraphale on his knees, until the demon was almost close enough to touch.

Aziraphale jolted in his seat, hands loosening their grip on one another before he clamped them down on the armrests of his chair, lest they go wandering without his permission. "Crowley–" he began, but the demon cut him off before he could utter anything that he might have been forced to obey.

"Please let me love you," Crowley asked softly, his gaze pleading, anxiety lining his features. "I can do such a good job of it, you know I can, otherwise you wouldn't be in love with me in the first place."

"You know why I can't," Aziraphale said around the solid lump of earth that seemed to have lodged itself in his throat. "You can't consent to anything when you're like this."

"Come on, angel," Crowley cajoled, the faintest threads of distress beginning to wind their way through his tone. "I'm literally begging on my knees for you, do you even know how demeaning this is for me?"

And oh, hadn't Aziraphale pictured this scene countless times over, Crowley knelt before him with a look of adoration in his eyes?

He wanted to give in. Lord, but did he want to give in, to hold Crowley close and never let him go, to cover him with kisses and lavish him with praise–

But he couldn't. He shook his head, fighting back tears. "I don't want you to demean yourself for my benefit, Crowley," he whispered.

"You can pretend, though, can't you, for this, for me?" Crowley insisted. "That I'm just a lowly demon, just doing my job, practicing my wiles. Not like you'd get in trouble for indulging in it, your lot've signed off on it, haven't they?" His eyelids lowered, his gaze like liquid gold as he stared up at Aziraphale like he was something worth reverence. When he spoke again, his voice was like velvet, sending an entirely too enjoyable shiver down Aziraphale's spine. "I know you had your discreet gentleman's club, back in the day, bet you had all sorts of pleasant company there," he murmured, a surety to his voice that made Aziraphale's face heat up, made him wonder whether Crowley might have actually witnessed him attending the old club in Portland Place, engaging in activities far more intimate than dancing. "Bet there's things I can do that all your fancy gentlemen could only ever have dreamt of," he continued, desperation leaking into his words as Aziraphale didn't react beyond clutching tighter at the armrests of his chair. Crowley's fingers snaked up to undo the top button of the angel's trousers. "You can use me any way you like, I'm a demon, it's what I'm meant for. You don't even need to tell me you love me back, if you're not ready for that yet, you can just hold me if you like, that'll already be more than I deserve."

The spell broke as the button popped free if its eyelet. Panicked, Aziraphale shouted, "No!" and shoved Crowley away, sending him sprawling back as Aziraphale frantically redid his trousers. "Crowley, enough! I will not allow you to speak about yourself as if you have no other value, and I will _not_ take advantage of you while you are compromised like this!"

Crowley lay where he'd fallen and didn't move. "That was stupid of me," he mumbled.

"It's getting worse," Aziraphale said despairingly, sinking back into his chair. How could it be getting worse? Aziraphale certainly hadn't been adding any more heavenly love on top of what the Archangels had poured into Crowley already. If anything, it should have started to subside. Was it proximity to Aziraphale himself, like a moon trapped in a decaying orbit, pulling Crowley down and down until his entire self-identity was destroyed? Would Crowley's love for him begin to fade if they imposed some distance between them? "Maybe it really would be for the best if you were to return to your flat, properly this time, just for a little while–"

"No!" Crowley protested immediately, scrambling upright. "I'll– I'll do better, I won't do anything you don't ask me to, I promise I'll be good, please, don't kick me out again. I can't be away from you, not when I'm like this."

Aziraphale sagged. "All right," he murmured. "You don't have to leave. I am going to open the shop, though," he warned as Crowley broke out in a beatific smile. It hurt something deep inside Aziraphale to see Crowley so overjoyed at the prospect of merely remaining in his vicinity.

He stood, ordering his legs not to shake as he moved to the front door and flipped the sign over.

Despite having declared the shop open, though, a steady downpour built up over the morning, carrying through well into the afternoon, leaving the few people out and about disinclined to take a detour from their errands to visit an old bookshop. Those that came in seeking brief shelter from the weather found it very brief indeed – the way Crowley would hover behind them, uncomfortably close, very quickly made them think they'd rather brave the rain than whatever the ominous figure in black had in store for them.

The rainfall intensified, the meagre flow of humans through the bookshop petering out to less than a trickle. The only potential customer that had entered the shop in the past hour hadn't even lasted a full minute under Crowley's glowering gaze before hastily making an exit, all thoughts of ever trying to purchase a book from A. Z. Fell & Co. permanently banished from his mind.

"I don't need you looming at my customers," Aziraphale said, feeling a little irate. Having the shop open all day had somehow made him feel even worse, even less prepared to cope with the next time Crowley declared his love for him. "I can manage that perfectly fine on my own, thank you."

"You've never minded a helping hand there before," Crowley muttered.

"Yes, well, things are rather different now," Aziraphale said stiffly, turning pointedly away, fussing over the book in his hands before returning it to its shelf.

"But things aren't different, because you refuse to do anything about it," Crowley replied, aggrieved. "Why can't you trust me? Why can't you trust that I'm telling the truth?"

Aziraphale whirled on him suddenly, blue eyes swimming with an unfathomable grief. "This has _never_ been about trusting you, Crowley," he said, voice shaking. "Of course I trust you. Do you think I would have ever agreed to the Arrangement if I didn't?" He took a shuddering breath. "I love you," he bit out, like it was a deep personal failing. "Utterly and completely, and that means that of the two of us, I am the least worth trusting. How can I trust myself with you like this?" he asked, bottom lip faintly quivering. "How could I ever trust that I'm not simply seeing what I want to see? How could I ever trust that I wasn't taking my happiness at the cost of your freedom?"

Crowley's lips parted slightly, about to form another protest.

Then the bell above the bookshop door chimed, the sounds of the thundering rain outside flooding in.

"We're _closed_!" Aziraphale shouted, voice cracking, shoulders hunched without turning towards the sound.

The door very quickly shut again, the sign in the window fluttering and twisting before miraculously flipping over to show that the bookshop was, in fact, closed, the door locking itself for good measure.

Aziraphale took in a shuddering breath, steadying himself before daring to look back up at Crowley. "So," he said, fiddling with the hem of his waistcoat, clearing his throat. "That should fully explain my side of things, now, I think."

Crowley took off his sunglasses, gaze beseeching. "Angel–"

"I'm going to go upstairs and read for a little while," Aziraphale announced, scooping up a book at random and clutching it close to his chest. He bit his lip, then added, "Please don't disturb me unless it's an emergency."

Aziraphale turned sharply and headed for the spiral staircase leading up to his seldom-used bedroom. He did his best not to look down, but still caught glimpses of those pleading golden eyes staring up at him through the gaps between the metal steps.

Even once he arrived at the first-floor landing, entirely hidden from Crowley's vision, he could still feel that serpentine gaze against his skin, and knew with a sinking certainty that Crowley would wait exactly where he was until Aziraphale returned.


	6. Chapter 5

The first floor of Aziraphale's shop was much like the ground floor; more shelves, more books, more comfy armchairs. There was a bed, but it was so seldom used that Aziraphale didn't even give it a second thought, instead heading for one of the armchairs and settling in.

Aziraphale took a shaky breath, blinking furiously to keep himself from crying.

He'd told Crowley outright that he loved him. He hadn't expected the declaration to matter at this point, given that Crowley so obviously knew already, but saying those three words aloud had dislodged something within him that he hadn't even known existed. He felt untethered, perilously lightheaded, like a stray breeze would simply send him floating away.

He'd had to remove himself from the situation, because every word he'd said to Crowley had been the truth – he didn't trust himself, not when Crowley was being compelled to bend over backwards to try and please him. He needed some time to decompress, to recentre, to fortify himself against Crowley's advances without giving in to them.

Reading had always proved a wonderful escape in the past, and the present was no exception. If Crowley had still been in the same room as him, he might not have been able to focus, but like this, there was just enough distance for Aziraphale to set aside his fear and stress to be returned to later. For a little while, at least, he could pretend to himself that none of this was happening. That he could still long after Crowley from a safe distance, could still keep his feelings hidden, could still enjoy the simple pleasure of Crowley's company without any real expectation of the demon reciprocating his true feelings. He could still take comfort in his wishful fantasy that, perhaps, one day, Crowley would admit to feeling the same way, that damn what Hell thought about it, Crowley wanted to sweep Aziraphale off his feet and cherish him in all the ways the angel had ever dreamt of.

Aziraphale swallowed hard. That was a fantasy lost to him forever, now. Crowley didn't actually want to pursue Aziraphale romantically, it was just the divinity stuffed into him by the Archangels that was currently making him think he did. And even once that artificial imperative faded, things would never go back to what they had been. Aziraphale's love for Crowley had been put on display, now, there would be no ignoring it. There would forever be an undercurrent to their interactions once this was all over, a silent acknowledgement that Aziraphale wanted something that Crowley didn't.

He sent a furtive, desperate prayer skyward, that Aziraphale's pathetic feelings for Crowley wouldn't lead to the collapse of their friendship. He'd spent so long fearing that his true affections being exposed would make the demon flee from his life entirely, and even after all this time he didn't know how he'd cope if that happened. The prospect of losing Crowley's companionship over this was a possibility he couldn't bear to dwell on.

Aziraphale took another shaky breath, realising he had let himself become distracted again, after all.

_Focus_.

He forced himself to keep his attention on the book, fingers smoothing along the worn edge of the pages. Even though his hands had still been trembling when he cracked the cover of the thick hardback he'd grabbed downstairs, had started to quiver again as his mind drifted back to his current predicament, he soon found himself sucked into the fictional world within.

He was dimly aware of the sun setting and rising, in the same sort of way one is aware of the Earth hurtling through space at over a million kilometres an hour. Only once he turned the last page and closed the book with a soft thud did he startle back to reality, suddenly crushed under a thundering wave of shame as it hit him that he'd effectively abandoned Crowley for a day and a half. He knew with an aching certainty that Crowley would be exactly where Aziraphale had left him, staring forlornly up the spiral staircase, unable to think of anything but the angel's return.

Aziraphale swallowed and set his book aside, fingers already beginning to shake again. He forced himself upright, hands clenched tight to hide the tremors as he marched resolutely for the stairs.

He hesitated, foot hovering over the top step.

Was this really the best course of action, having Crowley at the shop? Might it not be better to tell him to go to his flat and sleep, this time phrasing it in such a way that Crowley couldn't interpret the instruction creatively? It wasn't as if Crowley would be much aware of what was happening whilst he slept. Aziraphale wondered whether it might be possible that if Crowley were asleep, he wouldn't continue to feel the aching desperation to cater to Aziraphale's every whim.

He hoped.

But, Aziraphale realised with sudden, chilling clarity, there was no telling how observant Heaven was being about the whole situation. There was every chance that one of the Archangels would pop down to check in on how Crowley was settling in, and to give themselves a pat on the back for what a nice thing they'd done for him. It would be rather impossible to explain Crowley's absence, not if they discovered him fast asleep in Mayfair. They would likely think that the divinity hadn't taken properly the first time around, and that Aziraphale had just been too polite to say anything. They'd take Crowley away and start the process all over again, more brutally this time, would blame Crowley for not loving Aziraphale properly. They wouldn't stop until there was nothing left within him that could ever disobey. They'd obliterate him in the name of love, send Aziraphale back an empty shell with vacant, doting eyes, and Aziraphale would have lost his best friend in the entire universe.

He couldn't let that happen.

He took a step down. Then another, each footfall ringing out against the metal like the clang of shackles, binding him.

As he'd anticipated, Crowley was waiting for him at the base of the stairs. It didn't seem that the demon had moved an inch since the night before, and Aziraphale felt a great churning of guilt low in his gut as he descended to the ground floor.

"Hello, my dear," he offered hesitantly, and Crowley gave him a radiant smile.

"Did you change your mind?" he asked eagerly, clinging to the central pole of the spiral staircase as he waited for Aziraphale to reach him.

"…No, Crowley," Aziraphale said as gently as he could, trying to keep the fact that he wanted nothing more than to say yes from making his voice wobble.

"But I love you," Crowley said, and Aziraphale's pathetic heart fluttered in his chest before rending itself in two.

"Please stop saying that," he whispered, hating himself for the pained expression that crossed the demon's face, lips moving but nothing intelligible passing over them.

"Please," Crowley said after a moment, the word sounding like it had been squeezed out of him, eyes glistening and full of shame. "You wouldn't be taking anything I didn't already want to give you. It _hurts_ , Aziraphale, being denied like this, you have no idea what this feels like for me. I just need something to take the edge off, doesn't need to be anything major. I just need you to touch me without you immediately flinching away like I'm repulsing you."

Aziraphale's chest clenched. "Crowley," he whispered, aghast. "I could _never_ find you repulsive, you must know that."

"Then touch me," Crowley breathed. "Doesn't need to be a–a kiss or anything…" He trailed off for a moment, clearly distracted by a fantasy of just that. "It can be as platonic as you like. I just need _something_. I can't stand feeling like I'm failing you."

Tears gathered ominously along Crowley's lashes, threatening to begin streaming down his cheeks at any moment. Aziraphale wasn't sure if he would be able to handle Crowley actually crying; he was even less sure that Crowley's pride would be able to cope with crying in front of him. Crowley might well not forgive him for driving him to the point of tears, once he was of his own mind again.

With that thought at the fore, Aziraphale realised that his own attempts at strengthening his resolve had had the opposite effect, his admittedly rocky defences crumbling and breaking before him. He wrung his hands a little, then stepped around the register to the sofa tucked in behind it, taking a seat and hesitantly patting the cushion beside him in invitation.

Crowley's eyes glittered brighter than the stars, looking at Aziraphale like the angel had just brought him the moon. He eagerly scurried over to the couch, folding his long limbs inelegantly in order to slot himself in at Aziraphale's side, curling up next to him. Tentatively, he rested his head on the angel's thigh, curled fingers just barely brushing the side-seam of Aziraphale's trousers. A hesitant, grateful smile settled on his lips when Aziraphale didn't pull away, and Aziraphale gave him a wobbly smile back, hands resting very purposefully in his own lap.

This was all right, wasn't it? They could look back at this afterwards and at least pretend that this was a platonic expression of affection. That this was merely a nice moment between two beings that had been friends for millennia.

Except Crowley had always snapped and snarled whenever Aziraphale told him he was nice, or tried to thank him for something he'd done, or said anything to suggest that Crowley was anything less than utterly demonic, for fear of word getting back to his superiors. He would never have submitted to curling up together on the couch like this, not even if he was too drunk to stand upright, let alone have been the one to suggest it.

"You can play with my hair, if you like?" Crowley asked hopefully.

"I think it would be best if I didn't," Aziraphale said gently, barely resisting the urge to immediately acquiesce, as if he were being compelled to obey Crowley's commands, rather than the other way around.

Crowley buried his head a little harder against Aziraphale's thigh, hiding away his face. Aziraphale tried not to lean into the sensation too much. "Right. 'Course. Sorry."

"Don't apologise, Crowley," he replied, gaze soft, even as his fingers itched to reach out. He quickly snatched up a book he'd left under the register to keep his hands otherwise occupied, opening it up to where he'd left off.

Crowley shifted a few times, then went still. The weight and heat of the demon's head against him was still palpable and unignorable, though, and Aziraphale reread the same page without processing a single word more than two dozen times before finally admitting defeat.

He peered down at Crowley over the top of his book, expecting the demon to be looking right back at him with that molten gaze of his.

Instead, Crowley's eyes were closed, the sharp angles of his face gone soft with sleep. A few strands of red hair fell across his forehead, and all of Aziraphale immediately ached to give in to temptation and brush it aside.

But he knew where that would lead.

His fingers would draw the errant lock back amongst its compatriots, but he wouldn't be able to stop himself there. Crowley's hair looked so soft, Aziraphale just knew that it would feel like silk flowing under his touch. He wouldn't be able to keep himself from carding his fingers through its length, not unless it was to shift his exploration to the sharp line of Crowley's cheekbone. Then the demon would stir under his gentle caress, leaning his face up into Aziraphale's palm before he'd even fully awoken.

Aziraphale knew he wouldn't be able to resist Crowley sleepy and pliant under his touch like that. That he would take things that Crowley didn't currently have the ability to say no to, would take things that he wouldn't be able to put back after.

Then, once the divinity had faded and Crowley regained control of his mental faculties, he would never forgive Aziraphale for what he'd done, and it would be no less than what he deserved.

So he waited, keeping his hands clasped so tightly in his lap that his fingers began to ache, whilst Crowley's breathing gradually slowed and deepened to the point where it would take an air raid siren to wake him. Only then did Aziraphale carefully extricate himself out from under the demon's weight, sliding the overstuffed pillow that had been warming at his side underneath Crowley's head as a substitute for his thigh. He held his breath as Crowley shifted and muttered in his sleep, but the demon slumbered on, nuzzling the pillow as he let out the softest of snores.

Aziraphale let out a shaky exhale, reaching over the back of the sofa to tug forward the ends of the blanket draped there, so that it fell over Crowley's supine form and kept him warm. The lock of hair across his forehead fluttered slightly at the motion of the blanket, but didn't shift entirely. Aziraphale was halfway through reaching out to sweep it aside before he realised what he was doing, and snatched his hand back.

"Sleep well, my dear," he murmured, then retreated further into the bookshop like the spineless coward he was.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to any subscribers that may get multiple notifications, Ao3 is being a little persnickety with me today.

Few demons slept.

Even fewer demons dreamt. Crowley had, historically, been part of the former camp but not the latter, feeling that dreams were just a little bit too human of a concept even for him to dabble in. The dreams that had come for him when he had tried before, just to sate his curiosity, had led him to yank his mind away from the mental images his subconscious had supplied him with, swearing off the practice entirely.

Now, dreaming came to him without his permission, but even if he'd been able to banish the dream from his mind, he doubted he'd have been able to bring himself to do so.

It was a far more pleasant dream than anything his subconscious had come up with the last time he'd tried, after all.

Why wouldn't he want to stay in a dream where Aziraphale told Crowley he loved him back with a smile on his face?

His mind wasn't kind enough to actually let him believe the dream was real. Although possibly that was actually a mercy, saving him from the crushing heartbreak when he awoke to reality, that Aziraphale was never going to believe Crowley when he said that he was in love with him.

For now, however, in his dreams…

Crowley got to imagine a world where upon confessing his love to Aziraphale, the sudden burst of elation that had lit up the angel's face hadn't disappeared almost immediately. Gabriel faded into nonrelevance with that fuzzy sort of dream-logic as Aziraphale stood from his armchair, arms wide and inviting as he stepped toward Crowley. Crowley moved to meet him, falling into that warm embrace, Aziraphale's lips on his. The angel murmured incessant endearments as they kissed, affirmations of how long he'd loved Crowley for, how glad he was to finally be able to say it, how sorry he was for making Crowley wait for him all these centuries.

Where Aziraphale took him by the hand, still smiling, and led him up the spiral staircase, to the positively Victorian canopy bed that even in his dreams, Crowley couldn't help but roll his eyes at. Aziraphale pouted at him but was soon grinning again, eyes twinkling. He pulled the curtain aside and drew Crowley down onto the mattress, falling into another kiss. They shed their clothes slowly, savouring the reveal of previously forbidden expanses of skin. Every touch was soft and sweet, all the things that Crowley never would have admitted to wanting. Aziraphale gasped and arched against him, praise falling from his lips like rain as they held each other close, so much closer than they had ever dared allow themselves to be before. Crowley watched, enraptured, as Aziraphale came undone under his hands, the sight so breathtaking that he couldn't help but immediately follow after, the both of them wrapped in a gentle afterglow. Aziraphale's fingers ghosted through his hair and Crowley sighed into the touch, eyelids fluttering shut as he drifted off into a dream within a dream.

––––––––––––––––––––

Crowley woke by degrees, the fibres of a warm blanket tickling his nose as he stirred. The dream was already slipping from his grasp, even as he snatched at it with sleep-slow fingers. He filled his lungs with a big breath as he pushed himself upright, gazing around in confusion for a few moments before he was able to place himself at the bookshop.

It was a few moments more before he remembered _why_ he'd fallen asleep at the bookshop, that the tattered remnants of the dream fading from his mind were entirely fiction, and all at once the pressing need to demonstrate his love for Aziraphale surged back up, threatening to drown him.

Still, was he just imagining it, but was the compulsion to throw himself at Aziraphale's feet beginning to shift, just a little? Was the ache deep within him from being denied Aziraphale's love, or from the jagged old wound where his Grace used to reside, slowly loosening its grip on the divinity that filled him?

He even wasn't sure if the divinity was already beginning to leak out of him, or if it was just that his awareness of the eventuality had grown. That he was merely standing on the edge of a yawning pit, safe for now but knowing that inevitably, he was going to fall, and it was going to hurt.

"'Ngel?" he called out, shoving the blanket off and stumbling to his feet.

Aziraphale appeared between the stacks after a few seconds. "Ah, you're up," he said with a wistful smile. "I do hope that you slept well?"

"What day is it?" he asked, as his internal clock for that sort of thing was rather terrible. It had proved inconvenient on more than one occasion, most notably when he'd fallen asleep in the early 1860s, only to find it was the late 1930s by the time he finally dragged himself back out of bed.

"It's Saturday," Aziraphale told him, and Crowley felt a wash of relief.

Less than a week, then. That wasn't so bad.

Although there would have been something to be said about sleeping his way through the divinity slowly draining out of him, and only waking once he'd gone back to normal. It would be the far less painful option, for starters.

Still, it would mean abandoning Aziraphale for however long it would take, and even without the divinity influencing him, that prospect would have held little appeal.

"I don't suppose you're feeling any less in love with me today?" Aziraphale asked with forced levity, a hopeful, anxious tilt to his words still bleeding out around the edges.

And that was just the thing, wasn't it? Any love that Crowley could offer him would be too sharp, too painful, made rough and ragged by millennia of being told that a being like Crowley wasn't even capable of feeling such things without divine intervention. Crowley's love would only ever be good for cutting Aziraphale to pieces.

"Might be," Crowley managed to lie, to spare Aziraphale the continuing anguish of what he thought was a false confession. Even if the sheer relief on the angel's face tore Crowley to shreds in the process.

"Oh, you are? That's wonderful news!"

The joy in Aziraphale's smile was a radiant spear to Crowley's heart. "Ngh," he grunted, cramming two fingers into each of his jean pockets, shoulders hunching inward. "Yeah. Terrific."

Aziraphale's smile dimmed. "Oh, my dear boy, I'm so sorry, that was incredibly insensitive of me. You still think you're in love with me, even if it's less than before, that must be an awful thing to see me being pleased about."

Crowley let out a strangled sound. "'S not great, no." He scuffed his toe against the ground, unable to bring himself to look up. "Wouldn't have thought it'd be so easy for you, either," he muttered, aching still from the way Aziraphale's face had brightened at the notion of Crowley's love for him fading.

"What's that?"

The words sat like poison in his throat. "Watching me fall out of love with you."

Aziraphale's smile slipped away entirely, and instead he looked like someone had just punched him in the gut.

Crowley had never hated himself more.

What was wrong with him? Hadn't he lied in the first place to spare Aziraphale more pain?

"Would you like me to check?" Aziraphale asked once he'd recomposed himself, apparently not yet content with the amount of self-flagellation he'd already been doing, either. "It's unlikely that I'll be able to do anything much about it, but there's always the possibility."

"Yeah," Crowley croaked before he could stop himself, still eager for anything that might bring Aziraphale closer to him, even when he knew the result would likely hurt them both. What would the angel think, after all, when he saw that a miniscule amount of the divinity fading was apparently already enough for Crowley's love for him to noticeably diminish? "Sounds like a plan."

"I–"Aziraphale's mouth suddenly tightened. "…I was about to ask if it's all right for me to touch you in order to do this, but you would say yes either way, wouldn't you?"

"It _is_ all right, though," Crowley insisted. Unsurprisingly, this didn't seem to assuage Aziraphale's distress any, the angel letting out a troubled sigh before beckoning Crowley closer, squaring his shoulders and straightening his spine as he prepared himself.

On another plane of existence, Aziraphale opened a multitude of eyes, and in this one, he raised his hands to gently cradle Crowley's cheeks.

Crowley let out a soft, broken sound at the touch, knees going wobbly then giving out entirely as he sank to the ground.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said quietly, but didn't let go, a fact that made Crowley so pathetically grateful that he had to shut his eyes, unable to bear Aziraphale seeing into the depths of them.

Not that it mattered, anyway, as Aziraphale was about to be peering into his very soul, but at least this way Crowley had some flimsy pretence of dignity to cling to.

He dug his fingers into his thighs, the fabric of his jeans too tight to properly twist into, in order to keep himself from clutching at the hem of Aziraphale's trousers like a starving beggar.

He felt a wash of shame, remembering how he'd eagerly pressed himself up against the warm bulk of Aziraphale's thigh. How his heart had fluttered in his chest at the angel's nearness, how he'd offered for Aziraphale to touch him, how he'd selfishly let himself hope that Aziraphale had been about to give in completely.

But of course, he hadn't, because despite his less than angelic indulgences, Aziraphale had a far better grasp on actual goodness than any of the Archangels. Here he was, Crowley being served up to him on a silver platter, with a very literal blessing from Heaven, and still he said no. He wanted to say yes instead, so badly, Crowley could see it in every line of Aziraphale's face, but he denied himself because he didn't think it would be fair to Crowley.

Despite the fact that it was everything Crowley had ever wanted.

Infuriatingly, it only made him love the angel more.

"Yes, I think it is receding," Aziraphale murmured after a few moments, only a slight doubtful edge to his words. Crowley shivered, feeling the intensity of Aziraphale's gaze even with his own eyes closed. "It's surprisingly difficult to tell," he continued, seemingly half to himself. "Not really having a baseline to compare to doesn't help matters, but even still... Given that the main metaphysical difference between angels and demons is the presence of divinity, or lack thereof, I would have thought that foreign divinity being forced into you would mean that it wouldn't be so thoroughly integrated with your very being..." His voice faltered. "I don't know that I... I don't know that it will ever be possible to tell whether the divinity has faded entirely, or if what remains is merely the echoes your own divinity from before you Fell, or..." He drew in a shaky breath. "Oh, _Crowley_ , I am sorry that you're being subjected to this."

"'S not your fault," Crowley mumbled, eyes cracking open as he laid his hands over Aziraphale's, not yet ready for him to pull away.

"It _is_ , Crowley," Aziraphale said quietly, voice full of heartbreak. "If only I'd been more careful, this wouldn't have happened to you. You never would have needed to think that you returned my affections. You never would have needed to feel such anguish at my not acting on them."

Crowley closed his eyes again in attempt to hold in the tears he could feel forming.

The greatest irony about it all was that in attempting to ensure that Crowley would love Aziraphale back, the Archangels had only ensured that Aziraphale would never believe that Crowley was professing his love of his own volition. Even if Crowley pretended for decades, or centuries – time that they didn't have, in any case, given that the Earth was only supposed to last six thousand years and was fast approaching its expiration date – that things had gone back to normal before confessing his love again, there would always be some small part of Aziraphale that would fear that some of that heavenly light had lingered. That Crowley had simply bided his time, waiting for Aziraphale to drop his guard so that he could be manipulated into a relationship that Crowley didn't truly want. That Crowley's demonic nature was so duplicitous and insidious that he'd be so effective at self-sabotage.

In the end, it seemed like the closest he'd get to what he truly wanted was this – Aziraphale cradling Crowley's face, the angel's entire attention focussed on him. If Crowley pretended hard enough, he could almost feel Aziraphale closing the few inches between them, drawing him in for a kiss, whispering loving endearments against his lips–

His fantasy was interrupted by a crackle of ozone and lightning, the air opening up without warning as Gabriel appeared in the bookshop.

"Looks like this is going well."


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter may take a bit longer than usual to come out, as I'm working on a fill for the fillfest on the kinkmeme that has, in a shocking turn of events, rather gotten away from me.
> 
> On another note, I received some lovely fanart of the Archangels ganging up on Crowley in Chapter 1 from the wonderful [Usedtobehmc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Usedtobehmc/pseuds/Usedtobehmc), which you can feast your eyeballs on here: [link](https://i.imgur.com/Zer1SFh.jpg)

"Looks like this is going well." Gabriel's voice boomed through the bookshop, making them both jump. Aziraphale instinctively pulled away from Crowley, millennia of fearing reprisal from his employers for so much as talking to Crowley overriding the knowledge that this situation was by their design. Crowley barely kept himself from whimpering at the loss of the angel's touch, the sound catching quietly in his throat.

"Gabriel," Aziraphale stammered. "I– I wasn't expecting you–"

"That's why it's called a surprise visit, Aziraphale," he said with a smile. "Just checking in, seeing how you're enjoying our present to you." He looked down at Crowley, amused by what he clearly saw as Crowley kneeling subserviently at Aziraphale's feet. "I see you've got him in the proper place for a demon."

"Um," Aziraphale said, unsure how to even begin to respond to that.

A wretched part of him was actually glad that the Archangel was here, that he'd interrupted the moment that had been building. Aziraphale felt as if he had been mere seconds away from running his thumb over Crowley's perfect cheekbone. His lips and fingertips had been tingling with the desire to tilt Crowley's face up a little more, to lean down and kiss those soft lips, to take all the things Crowley had been falling over himself to offer to him.

He needed to be stronger than this, for Crowley's sake. He couldn't allow himself to touch Crowley anymore, at the very least, because apparently he lacked the necessary force of will to deny himself what he wanted. It would be irresponsible of him to rely on the fortuitous appearance of an Archangel anytime he was feeling particularly weak. Crowley deserved better than that from him.

Especially when the artificial love Crowley held for him was already beginning to fade.

On the one hand, he was glad; Crowley telling him the truth like that, instead of lying and telling Aziraphale what he wanted to hear, really could only mean that the demon was returning back to normal. That the divinity keeping him trapped in its grip was ever so slowly loosening its hold.

On the other, well…

Hearing Crowley saying he was falling out of love with him was its own fresh brand of pain.

"Don't really understand why you'd love a demon like this, but…" Gabriel shrugged. "If it makes you happy."

Aziraphale swallowed and nodded, looking down at Crowley without meeting his eyes. "Yes, deliriously so." He managed a brief upturn of his lips. "Thank you, again."

"Don't mention it," Gabriel said charitably, but with a smug little smile that suggested he took a great deal of satisfaction in Aziraphale's gratitude. He didn't even spare a glance for Crowley, evidently uninterested in what a demon might have to say about the situation. "So? Is it going well? Keeping his divinity topped up isn't too much of a hassle for you?"

"No, no, it's– everything is perfectly all right, no intervention needed," Aziraphale hurriedly reassured, reading the subtext to Gabriel's words like it was a flaring neon sign. The last thing he wanted was for the Archangels to begin to think he was too incompetent to take care of the gift they'd so thoughtfully given him. That would just get Crowley taken away from him again, and the meagre progress Crowley had managed to make reset back to one.

And that was if he was lucky. There was still every chance that the Archangels would declare this entire endeavour a failure, and deal with Crowley in a more permanent way in order to remove temptation from Aziraphale's path.

Aziraphale gave Gabriel what he hoped was at least somewhere in the vicinity of a confident smile. "I've more than got a handle on things, thank you."

"Of course," Gabriel replied, nodding sagely. "We've given you a pretty strong baseline to work off of, anyway, it really shouldn't take much to keep on top of it."

"Precisely," Aziraphale agreed, doing his best not to be obvious as he inched sideways, placing himself between Crowley and Gabriel.

As if that would do anything at all if Gabriel thought things weren't going as intended.

"Well, if everything's good down here, I'll leave you to it," Gabriel told him, and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Looked like you were in the middle of something when I got here."

Aziraphale flushed pink. "Ah, yes, well. If you'd be so kind."

"Of course," Gabriel replied with a grin and a wink. "Until next time."

"I look forward to it," Aziraphale lied, and didn't allow himself to breathe until he was completely sure that the Archangel was gone.

"I've told you what a complete wanker your boss is, haven't I?" Crowley told him from where he was still kneeling on the floor.

"He means well," Aziraphale chided automatically, but found himself silently agreeing with Crowley's responding snort of derision. He sighed. "Why don't you stand up, my dear, there's no need for you to be kneeling like that."

"Dunno, I could think of a reason or two," Crowley murmured, but stood as Aziraphale's lips tightened into a thin line.

"Crowley…" he began tiredly, but the demon cut him off.

"Don't tell me not to say things like that anymore. Don't do it."

"What else am I meant to do?" Aziraphale protested, throwing up his hands as his face tightened further. "You know why I can't agree to any… propositions you might make whilst you're like this, no matter how much I might like to take you up on them." His expression softened. "I know you can't help but offer, and I swear to you I'm not blaming you for your actions whilst you're under the influence of this divinity. This entire situation is no one's fault but my own, and I…" He looked down, watching his own hands as they anxiously twisted against one another like an ouroboros. "I can't help but feel that it would be better for you not to have to make such offers in the first place."

"Please," Crowley begged, knees trembling like they wanted to send him to the floor again, but couldn't because of Aziraphale's request that he not do so. The sight brought Aziraphale perilously close to tears. "Please, offering to do things for you is all I have left, please don't take that from me."

"Crowley," he choked out. "You know that it's only going to hurt us both. Why on Earth would you want that? Surely it would be easier on you, not to have to receive my rejections?"

A scowl tugged at the corners of Crowley's mouth. "Of course I don't _want_ that, that's not the blessed issue here! D'you think I _like_ how all this is making the both of us feel? I'm meant to be making you _happy_ , and everything I try to do just makes you bloody miserable! It's ripping me to shreds, knowing that I can't offer you love the way you want it, and it's only going to keep getting worse, you know it is."

Aziraphale drew back. "I thought you said the divinity was fading."

Crowley closed his eyes briefly. "It is," he insisted. "It's just like… a wounded animal, knowing that it's probably about to lose this fight. It's getting desperate." He swallowed thickly, fixing Aziraphale with his beseeching gaze. " _I'm_ getting desperate, and I get the feeling it's only going to keep getting worse the longer that this goes on. I'm sorry. I know it's hurting you, but I… I need that outlet, to feel like if I just tried a little harder, I'd find something I could say that might eventually convince you, I need _something_. Please." He began to tremble, seismic quakes threatening to rend the topography of his face and send rivers streaming down his cheeks. "Please, you can't take that away from me. I'm begging you, don't."

The words ground out of Crowley like something being squeezed through a pair of colliding tectonic plates. Aziraphale knew that Crowley would never have admitted to such vulnerability of his own volition. He was not the type to lay himself bare like this, so open and raw and unprotected. He would not have so readily confessed to how little control he had over the situation if he'd been of his own mind.

"All right," Aziraphale told him softly. "I don't wish to infringe upon your autonomy any more than I already have. It wouldn't be fair to you, giving that up purely for the sake of my own comfort." Realising this might well trigger further anguish for Crowley, if he perceived it as not catering to Aziraphale's needs, he hastily added, "At any rate, knowing the distress it would case you would mitigate any relief I might feel."

The tension seemed to fade from Crowley's posture, the tightened lines of his face relaxing. "Thank you," he whispered, sounding so heartbreakingly grateful that it made Aziraphale's breath catch. "Is there anything I can actually do for you, angel? Anything at all that would make you happy?"

Aziraphale had to bite down on all the impossible requests that sprang unbidden to the tip of his tongue:

That he reverse the course of time, so that he never would have had to suffer for Aziraphale's mistakes in the first place.

That he find some way to purge the divinity from his body so that he wouldn't continue to be in pain.

That he love Aziraphale with a desire of his own.

"Why don't you pick out a book to read?" he suggested instead, floundering for something safe, something that wouldn't cut Aziraphale to the very marrow with longing.

Crowley perked up much more than he'd expected at the suggestion. "That's a great idea," he enthused. "Number of books you've got in here, there's bound to be something in one of 'em that can reverse what the Archangels have done."

The thought made Aziraphale positively ache with hope, and he sternly had to remind himself that Crowley had already told him that his love for Aziraphale had begun to fade alongside the divinity, which could only mean that the demon wasn't truly in love with him.

Besides, such things would not be found in human texts, at least not any of the ones found in Aziraphale's bookshop. How would it had have looked, after all, if he'd stocked his shelves with knowledge on how to thwart the powers of an Archangel? The thought danced so closely to treason that it had never even occurred to him, and even if it had, he wouldn't have acted upon it for fear of discovery. His keeping of books as a general principle was already somewhat frowned upon by Heaven. Somehow, he doubted that the Archangels would find academic curiosity a valid excuse for being in possession of such literature.

Still, he couldn't bear snuffing out the hope burning bright in Crowley's eyes.

"Yes, of course," he murmured. "I should have thought of it myself, how foolish of me."  
  
Crowley's delighted smile almost hurt too much to look at. "Now, I don't want to mess with your filing system, angel, and it's not like I'd have any idea where to start looking, why don't you point the way?"

Aziraphale nodded, not trusting that he'd be able to loosen the tightness of his throat enough to speak normally, and wound his way through the stacks, slowly gathering books that were the closest thing to tangentially useful that he could find.

When he returned to the main section of the shop, it was to find Crowley casually flung across his usual armchair, evidently ready to settle in for the long haul.

"I'll take half?" Crowley suggested, nodding at the stack of books cradled in Aziraphale's arms. He gave Aziraphale a lopsided grin that did unfair things to his heartstrings. "Promise I'll be gentle."

"I know you will," he said quietly, and set half the stack down on the small space Crowley had managed to clear on the cluttered low table beside him. He retreated to his own favourite chair, finding that a similar landing spot had been cleared for him to set down his own books.

He glanced back over at the demon as he sat. Crowley had already picked up the first book in his pile, holding it as carefully as if he were handling a newborn, lips moving faintly as his eyes scanned over the text held within.

Aziraphale watched Crowley read with an all-too-familiar burst of fondness, and sighed softly, and loved him a little bit more.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-control? I don't know her
> 
> (Yes, I've added another chapter to the total. Oops.)

They spent the next several days reading.

Crowley knew that they weren't going to find anything useful. All evidence to the contrary, but the divinity hadn't made him completely stupid. He knew that if Aziraphale had thought that there had been something that would help his situation in the thousands of books kept in his store, he would have been devouring them from day one, searching for a solution.

It wasn't the prospect of finding a cure that had made him latch so eagerly onto the idea, but the knowledge that reading was an activity that Aziraphale loved dearly; the hope that sharing in something the angel loved would help quiet the screaming, ragged edges of his soul. To an extent, it worked; he wasn't actively trembling, but he could feel the tremors lingering in his bones, threatening to resurface at any moment. It was still present enough that he couldn't quite settle, arranging himself into increasingly improbable configurations on the armchair before he migrated across to the sofa behind the till. It was equidistant from where Aziraphale was sitting, and allowed him to sprawl a little more fully, back twisted around in a way that betrayed he had a fair few more vertebrae than was standard.

Crowley was in the middle of slogging through a fantastically incorrect summarisation of the hierarchy of angels when Aziraphale stood from his chair. Unlike the last few dozen times he'd done so in the past few days, however, this time his eyes were still glued to the pages of the book his was holding. Clearly, he wasn't about to pick up another book from the pile, and Crowley nearly fell over himself scrambling upright to follow after.

"Don't mind me, just getting a cuppa," Aziraphale murmured. "Would you want one?"

_I want you_ , Crowley's mind supplied stupidly, and he bit down on the end of his tongue. "'M fine," he grunted instead.

Aziraphale waved an absent hand at him, book still held in the other, and headed for the small kitchen in the back.

The dismissal was implied rather than stated outright, but apparently that was enough for the compulsion from the divinity to keep him confined to the sofa, even as it simultaneously screamed for him to be as close to Aziraphale as physically possible. The book he'd been reading dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, legs crumpling underneath him as he turned and pressed his face against the cushions, trying to let the familiar scent of the bookshop fill his nostrils to centre himself. It didn't quite work – he'd been on the sofa long enough that his own spent-match-and-hot-stone scent had begun to embed itself in the fabric. Not to mention he was now disobeying Aziraphale on two fronts, both by not reading and by moving from his seat, even if it only was down onto the floor.

He tried to drag himself back up, but only got as far as clenching his hands into the cushions, the conflicting directives apparently locking him in place. The only further movements he was capable of making was to violently tremble. He only noticed the thin, pathetic whine rattling in his throat when it abruptly cut off as he gasped for air.

A muted thud sounded behind him, and Crowley's limbs finally loosened, whirling towards the sound.

Aziraphale moved towards him, hair backlit by the lamps behind him and blazing like a halo, those big blue eyes wide with concern. Crowley could stare at him forever and not get sick of it.

"Crowley? Are you all right?" he asked, alarm wrinkling his brow.

"You left," Crowley croaked, and Aziraphale's face tightened further, steps faltering, outstretched hand dropping back to his side. Crowley crawled back up onto the sofa, hugging his arms tight around himself for want of Aziraphale's arms wrapped around him.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale told him quietly. "I didn't think, and I– well, I should have."

Crowley looked down, noticing a teacup on the rug with a spreading damp stain. "Your tea," he murmured.

"What?" Derailed, Aziraphale followed his line of sight, then gave a little start, like he'd momentarily forgotten about the whole reason he'd left the room in the first place. "Oh, yes– oh dear–"

Crowley interrupted his fretting by snapping his fingers, sending the teacup, with contents safely inside, back into Aziraphale's hands. The angel seemed so shocked he almost dropped it again.

"I– thank you, Crowley."

The demon looked down again, ostensibly burying his nose in his book. "'S all right."

Aziraphale set the teacup down on the edge of a side table and let out a troubled sigh. "It really isn't."

Nevertheless, he sat and continued to read.

The silence that had been companionable before was now strained, and after a few hours of it pressing down on them, Aziraphale put on a record to try and stifle it.

It took a while, but they both settled back in, Aziraphale occasionally rising to collect a new selection of books, Crowley trailing after him like a comet around the sun. Another day dragged by, and Crowley began to notice after a while that the books Aziraphale had progressed onto reading looked rather familiar. Not in the sense that he'd already read them as part of their ostensible endeavour to find a way to reverse what the Archangels had done, but that Crowley had seen Aziraphale read them a number of times over the decades. They were well-worn favourites, always turned to whenever he was in need of comfort. Given the state of things, Crowley couldn't have blamed him, nor was he surprised.

Even without recognising the books, the way Aziraphale kept flicking guilty glances Crowley's way whenever he thought the demon wasn't looking would have clued him in before long.

Crowley felt an acute sense of shame lance through him. What was he doing? This wasn't a permanent solution – Aziraphale's collection was extensive, but it was finite, they wouldn't be able to keep up the pretence that either of them thought they'd find anything useful this way. Aziraphale was clearly buckling under the pressure to maintain the lie for Crowley's sake, and worse, it was actively making him feel ashamed of partaking in a pastime he normally so thoroughly enjoyed.

"I should go," Crowley told him, shutting his own book and carefully setting it to the side.

Aziraphale startled and looked over at him, nonplussed. "What do you mean, _go_?"

Crowley shrugged. He briefly thought about pointing out what Aziraphale had been doing, but saw no need to pile on top of the remorse the angel was clearly already feeling. "What people usually mean when they say that. Exit stage left. Vacate the premises. Leave the building."

Exasperated, Aziraphale set his own book down. "Crowley, I saw how you reacted when I so much as left the room for tea, I doubt you'd even make it to the end of the street."

"I could," Crowley said. "If you told me to, I could, I'd do it, for you."

A thick, heavy silence hung between them, weighing down on their necks for a few seconds before Aziraphale shook his head sharply, breaking it. "Absolutely not. I won't– I won't order you about, especially not to do something that will obviously bring you harm."

"I'll be fine," Crowley insisted, shooting up from the sofa.

"I know you may think that, and that doing so would make me happier, but I assure you, I find _no_ pleasure in the prospect of you collapsing on my doorstep for want of my company!"

"You don't know that will happen!"

Something flinty flashed in Aziraphale's eyes. "I do," he said, "And I can prove it." He bit his lip, resolve wavering momentarily before setting his mouth into a stern line. "Stay where you are a moment." So saying, he stood himself, and, eyes on Crowley the whole time, took several deliberate steps back.

The effect was immediate.

Crowley's knees wobbled and gave out, a hoarse croak of protest scraping its way up from his lungs as he sank down.

This was the first time since the divinity had begun to fade that Aziraphale had actively moved away with the sole purpose of putting distance between them. The divinity, which had been smouldering sullenly in his bones since the incident with the tea, roared back up into a blazing inferno, intent on consuming him from the inside from the deliberateness with which Aziraphale had moved away. Crowley could feel himself crumbling like logs into a fire, tongue charred, fingertips blackened.

Alarm sparked in Aziraphale's eyes. "Crowley?" he asked, voice jumping half an octave as he started forward. Every movement closer was like a cooling breeze over Crowley's fever-hot skin, a breath of relief for his starving, ash-filled lungs. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for you to– please, if you'd like, you can get up, don't stay on the floor on my account."

_Stop_ kneeling _before me, as if I'm–_

Crowley had wondered what Aziraphale had been going to say after that, if Crowley hadn't interrupted him. Had he been about to suggest he wasn't worth kneeling for? Preposterous, of course, but admittedly not out of character for the angel to believe. Or perhaps it had been the connections between kneeling and worship that had upset him?

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked again, an increasing tremor to his tone as he knelt beside the demon, bringing them to eye level with one another. "Could you please tell me what you want?"

_You_ , he thought, the word burning on his tongue. But saying it aloud would only cause Aziraphale further pain, the only thing that would hurt him worse than the flames of the divinity licking hungrily at the inside of his skin.

Aziraphale's face tightened anyway, because Crowley was a sharp jagged thing, only good for causing harm.

"Let's get you up, you can't possibly want to be sitting on the hardwood like this," Aziraphale said once it was clear no answer would be forthcoming. His hands slid under Crowley's elbows, and if he hadn't already been there, the touch would have taken his legs out from under him and sent him to the floor. He let out a soft sigh as Aziraphale drew him up onto the couch, the divinity settling back down to gentle embers with the angel's proximity.

Aziraphale went to pull away, and the divinity immediately flared up again. Before Crowley could stop himself, he grabbed onto Aziraphale's arms and pulled, yanking the angel down onto the sofa beside him. Aziraphale let out a sharp, shocked cry as he hit the cushions before turning his startled face towards Crowley's, his eyes silver edged with golden lamplight as they stared at Crowley, impossibly wide, their lips only a few inches apart–

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispered, eyes shimmering dangerously. "Please, my dear, don't. You must know how hard it is for me to resist you already."

"Hold me, then," Crowley replied shakily. "Please, I thought you were going to–" He gulped in a shuddering breath, head ducking in an attempt to hide the tears forming in his own eyes.

He tried not to let his sob of relief sound completely pathetic when Aziraphale's arms circled around him, drawing his head against the angel's chest, where he could feel the too-fast thrum of Aziraphale's superfluous heart tattooing its beat against his forehead. He noticed that Aziraphale seemed to be very deliberately keeping his hands away from Crowley's hair, likely to avoid burying his fingers in it. Crowley couldn't exactly blame him; he took very good care of it, he knew just how pleasant it was to touch.

There was a solid steadiness to Aziraphale's embrace, though, that told him the angel wasn't about to break. That no matter how much he might want it to, this hug wasn't going to lead to anything else, and if Crowley tried to force it anyway, it would likely just result in Aziraphale letting go of him entirely.

In fact, Aziraphale's embrace only grew tighter when the air of the bookshop began to sizzle with the tell-tale ozone crackle of an Archangel's approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I've done this cliffhanger already, but I can promise that the outcome of this one will be different ;)


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for leaving off for so long, my lovelies! Have a longer-than-usual chapter by way of an apology :)

Michael appeared in the bookshop in a flash of light so blinding that it made Crowley glad he was shielding his face against Aziraphale's chest.

Aziraphale held him even closer for a moment, then withdrew, standing and placing himself between Crowley and the newly arrived Archangel. Crowley managed to suppress a whimper at the loss of contact, knew that would be just a little too pathetic, but there wasn't much he could do about the desperate longing he knew was shining in his eyes.

It was likely all to the better. No reason to let Michael think he was anything less than utterly smitten with Aziraphale.

It was the truth, anyway.

"Michael," Aziraphale said, only a faint tremble to his voice. "What an unexpected pleasure. How may I be of assistance?"

"Please," Michael replied with a thin smile, gesturing to the sofa, "You seemed so… domestic, no need to stand to attention on my account."

Crowley felt Aziraphale hesitate for a fraction of a second, then join him on the sofa once more. Even as he gratefully wrapped his arms around Aziraphale again, Crowley doubted that it was lost on him that it left Michael towering over them both. Somehow, he got the impression that this wasn't going to be a social call.

He could barely bring himself to care about why Michael was here. Not when he could drape himself lovingly against Aziraphale and not be pushed away. Crowley's nose was practically laid out against the angel's collarbone, he was so close. It would only be a matter of inches to nuzzle against Aziraphale's neck, to press a gentle kiss to the curve of his jaw.

A sudden thrill raced through him as he realised that if he did do it now, he might actually be able to get away with it.

It would be beyond reckless, he knew that. But it was also the only time he could do it without Aziraphale flinching away. For a little while, he could pretend that Aziraphale wasn't actively reciprocating only because one of his bosses was here. He could pretend that once she'd left, Aziraphale would be overcome by his touch, and smother him with all the kisses he could ever desire.

Once the thought occurred to him, it was impossible to ignore. The divinity surged within him, taking over. He didn't even feel himself move, but he must have, because now his nose was grazing up the underside of Aziraphale's chin, lips pressing against the thrum of his pulse. A soft sound punched itself out of Aziraphale's throat, his body briefly stiffening before melting against him. Crowley could just imagine the way Aziraphale's lashes had fluttered, lips gently parting, the apples of his cheeks starting to bloom with colour.

"Ah– Crowley," he said, his voice rough and warm and only faintly marred by fear. Solid hands curled around Crowley's shoulders, gently but firmly easing him away. "Not whilst we have company, dearest."

Michael gave Aziraphale a prim little smile. "I see you've been taking full advantage of our gift."

Aziraphale swallowed, nodded, settling Crowley against his side, where he couldn't go and get any ideas. Crowley placed a rebellious kiss against the edge of the angel's waistcoat pocket. "Yes, I– as I said to Gabriel, I can't even begin to thank you enough."

"Your gratitude is much appreciated, of course, Aziraphale," she said, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from her suit jacket, leaving the impending addendum hanging in the air for a beat before continuing. "But I hope I won't need to remind you of you duties, here." She raised her eyebrows at him slightly. "It's… understandable, that you'd wish to have something of a honeymoon period, but that mustn't come at the cost of your responsibilities."

Aziraphale nodded again. "Yes, o-of course, wouldn't dream of it."

She smiled again, the razor-sharp flash of teeth barely hidden behind her lips. "We're expecting big things from you, now, Aziraphale," she said. "After all, we've effectively neutralised your adversary for you, and he's proved quite the obstacle to good in the past." Her eyes shifted to Crowley, then roamed around the bookshop, inspecting it. "You'll have to do something about the wards you have up here," she continued. "They wouldn't do much to stop any demonic incursions, you'll need to put in a bit more effort to ensure that the forces of Hell would be unable to operate within this space." Her eyes flickered to Crowley once more. "After all, you wouldn't want your gift being needlessly damaged, would you? And it isn't as if you can take him with you whilst you're on assignment."

"I– I can't?" Aziraphale protested weakly.

Her smile turned pitying. "Aziraphale, you and I may know he is under your complete control, but you must understand how it must _look_ , having a demon hanging about whilst God's work is being done."  
  
Aziraphale's head ducked slightly. "Ah, yes, of course. Foolish of me. I'll… I'll hop right to it."

Crowley felt Aziraphale's hand tighten on his waist. Any wards designed to limit a demon's abilities within the bookshop would affect Crowley, too, and would still leave any hostile demons the option to break in and take him the human way. If anything, putting up wards would leave Crowley in more danger than before.

"Excellent," Michael said primly, straightening the cuffs on her jacket and setting her shoulders back, hands clasped before her. "I do look forward to seeing your performance on Earth improve."

And with a flash of divine light that made Crowley bury his face against Aziraphale's chest for a moment or risk being blinded, she was gone.

The sudden quiet of the bookshop clung to them, sticky like treacle.

Aziraphale was the first of them to speak, drawing in a stuttering breath like there was water in his lungs. "You were right," he whispered.

For a dizzying moment, Crowley thought he meant about giving in to Crowley whilst he was like this, that he was finally going to know what the angel's lips tasted like.

But Aziraphale was looking at him like he was drowning, and not in a way that Crowley's touch could save him from.

Crowley's mouth went dry. "You think I should go."

"I thought–" His voice cracked, his chin trembling, the entirety of him an avalanche waiting to happen. "I thought it would be _safer_ , keeping you here, but it won't. If I'm off performing miracles and Hell comes poking around and they find you here, not thwarting me, they'll–" He shook harder, foundations crumbling out from beneath him. "They'll–"

Crowley cupped Aziraphale's face with his hands, pressing his forehead against the angel's, because it didn't matter, did it? He could show Aziraphale all the love in the world, wrap his wretched bleeding heart up in a bow and serve it to him on a silver platter, and Aziraphale would still just believe it was too good to be true. That Crowley couldn't possibly _really_ love his fussiness, his stubbornness, his pedantry. He'd never believe that Crowley had begun to fall a second time the moment Aziraphale had admitted to giving away his sword.

"They won't," he said desperately. "I told you, remember? They'll think it's a punishment, they'll think it's a lark, it'll be fine."

Aziraphale shook his head, taking hold of Crowley's hands and easing them down. "It won't matter if they think it's a punishment for you or not," he said, tears welling as he squeezed the demon's fingers. "They'll just see you not doing your job, and drag you back to Hell to punish you themselves, and send up a replacement to take over your post."

"You don't know that," Crowley protested. " _I'm_ the one that works for Hell, I think I'd know a bit better than you what they–"

"Crowley," Aziraphale said softly, anxiety and sorrow making valleys of his forehead. "Tell me truthfully that there wouldn't be some form of retribution from Hell if there was a sudden upswell of good."

He opened his mouth, but all that came out was an anguished croak.

Aziraphale dropped his hands, pulling back far enough that they were no longer touching. Crowley wrestled down a whimper at the loss of contact.

"We have a few days, still," Aziraphale told him. "It would look suspicious if you left immediately after Michael's visit. I'll need to get to work shoring up the wards, but I'll begin with ones meant to prevent demons from entering the premises, which won't pose a problem for you. The later ones might become… uncomfortable, but I don't think–" His face tightened. "Well, relatively speaking, they won't make much of a difference to your current level of comfort. At any rate, you'll be gone before I put any proper work into those."

Crowley felt like a clod of earth had gotten lodged in his throat.

A few days. That was all he had left. Then Aziraphale would send him back to his flat to wait out the rest of the divinity draining out of him, alone. And after that, who knew how long it would be before either of them felt it was safe enough for them to so much be in the same room as one another. Or how long the shame of everything that had happened would sit like an impenetrable barrier between them.

A few days.

He had to ignore everything within him that howled for more.

"What will you tell them?" Crowley tilted his head upwards, clearing his throat as his voice cracked. "They won't be pleased that you've squandered their gift."

Aziraphale sighed heavily, not meeting his eyes. "I'll come up with something, I'm sure. It would hardly be the first time I've faced their disappointment in me." He looked down at his hands, very purposefully folding them together so that he wouldn't wring them with anxiety. "I doubt it would take much to convince them that you'd been able to pull the wool over my eyes."

"Right," Crowley said, throat sticking.

"Well." Aziraphale patted his own thighs and forced a smile as he stood. "Best get to it, shall I?"

––––––––––––––––––––––

The next few days passed by alarmingly quickly.

Aziraphale tended to the wards, because he didn't really have much of a choice, not with Michael's directive that he do so. There was a certain meditative quality to it, he supposed, so long as he didn't think too hard about the fact that, by Michael's intent, the completed wards would effectively serve as a gilded cage for Crowley. That regardless, he already couldn't leave without Aziraphale's say-so due to the divine compulsion driving his actions. That once he'd left the bookshop and the divinity had faded, Crowley most likely wouldn't want to come back for a long time, if ever.

He took a few shaky breaths to steady himself before continuing.

He spent the evenings holding Crowley close to him. It was the last chance he'd get to do so, after all, and the poor demon seemed liable to shake himself right out of his skin with want otherwise. Crowley would drift off on occasion, his sleeping face open and trusting and unmarred by the crippling humiliation he was subjected to by the light of day. Crowley's hair spooled out over Aziraphale's chest in copper waves, so tantalising a visual that it caused him physical pain to keep his hands away. He consoled himself with gentle strokes of the demon's shoulder, which Crowley leant up into with a happy murmur, a sleepy smile quirking his lips as he slumbered. Aziraphale had to fight to keep his breath from hitching, lest the sharp movement cause Crowley to awake.

Morning came, and Aziraphale allowed himself the small temptation of running his thumb over the sharp line of Crowley's cheekbone until he woke.

The love swimming in the demon's golden eyes couldn't entirely drown the pain lurking in their depths.

Aziraphale's breath caught sharply in his throat. Before long, that love would fade, and all that Crowley would be left with was pain and shame.

"Don't make me go," Crowley begged softly, clutching at the angel like a lifeline.

Tears spilt over Aziraphale's cheeks before he could even think to stop them. He drew his thumb over Crowley's jawline and pulled away, shaking his head. "I've made up my mind. Please don't try to convince me otherwise, you must know by now what it would do to me if you came to harm on my account."

"You're going to have to tell me," Crowley said, still clutching at him. "I won't go unless you do. I can't."

"Crowley, I–" He choked on his words, stopped, swallowed, then forced himself to forge on, eyes shimmering with tears as he met the demon's gaze. "I'd like for you to go to your flat in Mayfair, and sleep until the divinity the Archangels forced upon you dissipates enough that it no longer causes you pain. I'd like for you to wake if you would find yourself in some sort of danger otherwise, but not if it's merely so that you can be by my side." His voice cracked, forcing him to take a desperate gasp of air before continuing. "And I know that the influence I currently have over you will have faded by the time you wake, so there isn't any way for me to influence your actions past that, but… I would dearly like for us to remain friends once this is all done with. That you won't be so repelled by the knowledge of my love for you that you won't want to share your companionship with me."

Crowley pulled away and reached out, stroking a thumb over the back of Aziraphale's knuckles. "I can do that for you," he assured, voice trembling. "It doesn't matter how much or how little divinity I've got in me, that's not going to change anytime soon."

It was all Aziraphale could do to not flip his hand over, tangle their fingers together, and never let the demon go. Instead, he dropped his gaze to where Crowley was touching him, drew in a breath of air with a wet gasp, and watched forlornly as Crowley's fingers drifted away, out of reach.

"I'll see you later, angel," Crowley said softly.

Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to reply, knowing that if he tried, all that would come out would be a great big ugly sob. He blinked over and over, staring fixedly at his hand – as if he looked hard enough, he might find visual evidence of how his skin still tingled with the ghost of Crowley's touch.

He didn't dare watch Crowley leave, gaze resolutely fixed on his own fingers as his shoulders trembled, only his ears following the sound of the demon's retreating footsteps. He heard Crowley hesitate at the door, and felt his whole body tense up, emotion shivering all the way through to his bones like he was a battered tuning fork. For a brief, wild moment, it seemed that Crowley might break free of the divinity's compulsion, that he'd tell Aziraphale he wanted to stay of his own volition.

Then the tell-tale jangle of the bell over the door rang out, the sounds of London outside rushing in, then chimed again as Crowley stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind himself, taking London with him.

Aziraphale let out a single, mournful sob, like a caged animal returning to the wild only to find it no longer knew how to live there.

What hope was there, that Crowley would still remain his friend after all the pain Aziraphale had caused him? All the humiliation that he had suffered at Aziraphale's hands? His assurances to the contrary didn't count for much, given the circumstances. Aziraphale couldn't see how Crowley would be able to so much as look at him without being reminded of the degradation and danger he'd been subjected to for associating himself with Aziraphale. No matter how pleasant Crowley found his company, or how much the Arrangement eased both their workloads and saved them both such futile frustration, surely the demon would rather forget about what had happened. Seeing Aziraphale again would do nothing but bring him unpleasant memories, and there was no way he'd want to actively seek him out. Especially not when Aziraphale's love, the thing that had caused Crowley's misery to begin with, would still be looming over them both like a spectre.

No.

Fear gripped at Aziraphale's heart with its cold, dead fingers as a creeping certainty stole over him – that the next time he saw Crowley, it would be on the battlefield of Armageddon.


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week on Sunny Gets Carried Away With the Word Count…

Aziraphale finished up the wards on the shop in studious silence.

After all, he could always say that he'd been so focused on the work that Crowley must have slipped away without him noticing. The Archangels didn't need to know that he'd stalled in order to ensure that there was more than enough time for Crowley to get to the relative safety of his flat.

And also because he was terrified of the truth being discovered. That the Archangels would find out he'd rejected their gift to him, and ordered Crowley to go home.

There was only so much he could do, though, before he began to risk the Archangels finding out about Crowley's disappearance on their own, which certainly wouldn't be a good look for him.

He took a fortifying breath and left the bookshop, taking a cab to the Earthly entrance to Heaven and Hell.

The lobby was empty, as was the norm. Aziraphale had to fight the urge to bolt back down the escalator once he'd stepped onto it, gripping hard at the handrail to keep himself in place. Once he'd reached the top, it was another battle to move away from the escalator and head for the reception desk, staffed by a lone angel with an impeccable coif of blonde hair, a sleek screen glowing gently in front of her.

She looked up as he approached and gave him a bland smile. "Welcome back to Heaven," she said. "How may I assist you?"

"Ah, yes, hello." His responding smile was far more nervous than hers. "If it isn't too much trouble, I'd like to schedule an appointment with the Archangels Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel, please."

"Of course," she told him, eyes returning to her screen. "Allow me one moment."

Aziraphale shuffled nervously, secretly hoping that they would be even busier than normal. They had plenty more important things to be attending to, after all, it would likely be weeks before they would have an opening for him, if not longer–

The screen let out a soft chime, and she blinked at it in shock. "They'll… they'll see you immediately," she said, the veil of professionalism slipping slightly with her uncertainty.

Aziraphale's stomach plummeted. "Oh," he said faintly. That didn't bode well. "Excellent, I'll just– where should I…?"

"They'll be waiting for you in Conference Room _eiπ_ \+ 1 = 0," she informed him, expression pleasant once more. Aziraphale nodded uncertainly and set off down the corridor she pointed out for him.

He reached the conference room door and took a shaky breath before stepping inside. Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel were waiting for him, as promised, and they turned towards him in unison as he entered.

Aziraphale swallowed, trying to ensure his voice wouldn't crack with tension. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice, I'm most grateful, and I do hope you don't feel rushed–"

Uriel cut across him. "This meeting was already on the agenda," she said, regarding him coolly. "You haven't rushed anything."

"…Oh?" Aziraphale asked, feeling his heart leap up into his throat in fear. "That's… good, I suppose?" He let out a nervous puff of laughter. "Convenient, at the very least?"

"Aziraphale," Michael said with a gentleness that masked the edge of a razor's blade, "Our surveillance indicates that the demon Crowley has left your Earthly residence. Would you like to explain to us why that is? Why his absence wasn't reported immediately?"

"Surveillance?" Aziraphale echoed, feeling his heartrate pick up. He'd suspected as much, but was struck suddenly by the thought that perhaps they'd had their suspicions all along, that their observation of him was more thorough than he'd assumed, that they'd seen him spurning their gift again and again–

"Naturally," Uriel replied. "We needed to make sure that you were able to handle the demon, we began surveilling your outpost after Gabriel's first check-in with you."

"Just the front and back doors," Gabriel added, tapping his nose with a thin smile. "Wanted you to have some privacy, after all."

The relief nearly made Aziraphale weak at the knees. They hadn't seen Crowley spend the night curled up, shivering on his stoop. They hadn't seen Aziraphale rebuking the demon's attempts at affection, hadn't seen Crowley forlornly waiting at the base of the stairs while Aziraphale hid up on the first floor like a coward.

"Your miraculous activity report indicates that you haven't been replenishing the demon's divinity as instructed," Michael prompted, summoning up a sleek, clear tablet that glowed with iridescent blue lettering. "Why would that be?"

"Ah. Yes, well. Funny thing, but that _was_ actually what I came here to speak to you about." Aziraphale cleared his throat, trying to tamp down on his spiralling panic. He needed to do better than this. He needed to protect Crowley. "You see, you all did such a wonderful job filling him with divinity, and it was leaking back out of him so slowly, I rather thought that, you know, after a while, he might… fall in love with me of his own volition, and I wouldn't _need_ to keep topping up the divinity bestowed upon him," he said, trying for a nervous smile.

"Oh, Aziraphale," Gabriel said pityingly, and Aziraphale felt his chest tighten. He'd known they'd think him a fool for believing such a thing, but it still caused a sharp sting in the deepest, yearning parts of him.

Michael gazed at him with her usual brand of patronising sympathy. "Didn't Gabriel remind you at the beginning of all this that demons aren't capable of love?"

Aziraphale looked down, the highly polished floor reflecting his own miserable face back at him. "He did," Aziraphale replied. "I merely– well. I'd rather hoped that Crowley might be the exception."

"There _are_ no exceptions, Aziraphale," Uriel informed him dryly. "Not when it comes to demons. They can't do anything good unless they're being influenced by Heaven. Whatever they might have been before, this is what they are now."  
  
"Yes," Aziraphale agreed, even as he thought of every good, kind act he'd seen Crowley perform over the millennia, that secret kernel of niceness that Crowley fought so desperately to keep hidden behind scowls and snarled words. It was one of the numerous reasons that he'd fallen in love with the demon in the first place, after all. He swallowed thickly and nodded several times. "Yes, I-I see that now."

"We can try again," Gabriel offered. "If you keep him full of divinity this time, he won't run off. You'll know better than to let him control his own actions."

Aziraphale felt his heart lurch at the mere prospect. All things considered, they were taking this incredibly well, but somehow he doubted they'd treat a second failure anywhere near as kindly.

"No, I– thank you, but I really do think it best to let things lie as they are, I wouldn't want you to go to the trouble just for me to have another slip-up," he was quick to assure, a wan smile forced onto his lips. "Best not to give myself another chance for a moment of weakness."

Uriel regarded him pensively. "Maybe we should bring him in anyway," she said. "He _has_ defied the Purpose we gave him, after all."

Aziraphale's heart lurched again. "No need for that, I'm sure," he replied quickly. "He–" Aziraphale blinked hard and stared at his shoes as his voice cracked. "He was rather clear that being made to love me was a punishment in and of itself."

He hated how much the words felt like the truth.

"Well, yeah," Gabriel said, like he thought Aziraphale was being particularly dim. "He was trying to make you _Fall_ , Aziraphale, we wouldn't have given him to you if we'd thought _he_ wanted you like that, too."

Aziraphale was glad he'd already had his eyes downcast, so that the Archangels wouldn't see the rage that flared in his eyes. It had been millennia since Aziraphale had entertained the doubt that Crowley might be playing the long game like that, but the ringing certainly in Gabriel's voice just went to show how much of an anomaly Aziraphale's thinking was amongst the ranks of Heaven.

"Perhaps it's for the best, this way," Michael told him, pursing her lips carefully. "Now, Aziraphale… I do hope you haven't forgotten that if he's defied the divinity that's left within him, he is once again The Enemy. You _will_ be expected to thwart his wiles wherever you see them."

"It would be… _disappointing_ to find that you've allowed this experience to cloud your judgement," Uriel added, and Aziraphale wasn't sure she could have made the words more loaded if she'd tried.

"Of course, I more than understand my duty," Aziraphale told them as he lifted his head, face carefully devoid of anger, hands clasped tightly to hide the tremors. "I won't allow it to affect me. It will be as if none of it ever happened."

_If only_ , Aziraphale thought, a pang of sudden loneliness spearing through him. He'd seen the quiet devastation in Crowley's eyes when he'd left the bookshop on Aziraphale's orders. Even without the divinity influencing his actions, he was unlikely to forget how unwanted Aziraphale had made him feel, even if it was the only real choice he'd had. Their friendship had already been fraught with danger before any of this, how could Crowley possibly stomach being reminded of the indignities that being Aziraphale's friend had caused him to be subjected to? How could he possibly enjoy spending time in Aziraphale's company now, knowing just how lovelorn the angel was over him?

And even if – Aziraphale didn't dare let his hopes rise, knowing that having them dashed again would utterly shatter him – Crowley truly grew to love him of his own volition, and not just some lingering aftereffect of the divinity, the Archangels would not abide an uncontrolled demon being in a relationship with one of the Host. Not one of them thought any demon capable of it. Aziraphale's insistence that Crowley's feelings for him were true would fall on deaf ears, and they would instead assume that it was a trick, a temptation, another ploy aimed at making Aziraphale Fall.

There would be no sympathy from Heaven for him a second time around, especially if he tried to love Crowley on his own terms, rather than theirs. They would likely cast him out for his insubordination, and more importantly, destroy Crowley for his insolence in repeating the exact sin they'd already punished him for.

"Atta boy," Gabriel told him, stepping forward and giving Aziraphale a slightly-too-hard slap on the back, startling him out of his despondent reverie. "We'll be docking your celestial wages and restricting your miracle limits, of course," he added conversationally. "Nothing too dramatic, we know you didn't lose the demon on purpose, but still, it'll be good for you to learn to be a little bit more careful with gifts when they're given to you."

Aziraphale nodded, mutely accepting his punishment. Truth be told, he'd expected far worse. The Archangels must have decided he was being particularly pathetic about all this, and taken pity.

"We're all disappointed with how things have turned out," Uriel told him, and Aziraphale shrank a little further in on himself.

"Yes, I... I would rather it had not happened like this."

_Or at all._

"I do wish to thank you all, for your kindness and understanding," he added, words sticking in his throat like tar.

"But of course," Michael replied. "Heaven is merciful." She tilted her head slightly. "That will be all for now, Aziraphale. I do hope the next time you report in, you'll have had far better recent results."

"Of course," Aziraphale echoed, fighting to keep his utter relief from showing. "I truly am grateful." He hesitated a moment, but the way Uriel's eyebrow twitched upwards slightly made him think better of saying anything else. Instead, he gave them all a smile, folded his hands together so that he wouldn't make any nervous gestures with them, and turned to leave.

The weight of the Archangels' gaze lay heavy against his back as he made his slow descent back to Earth.

–––––––––––––––––––––

Crowley barely remembered the drive back to his flat.

He had a few impressions of the trip – the foot-tapping impatience as he waited for the Bentley to drive itself over from where he'd left it outside his flat; the way he'd white-knuckled the steering wheel, feeling the agonised roar of the divinity within him growing louder the further he moved away from the bookshop; the sullen silence of the radio the entire way.

He managed to stumble over the threshold before the tears actually started falling, an ugly, mournful sound crawling out of the depths of him. He only managed a few steps into the flat before the pain drove him to his knees. He knew instinctively that he wasn't going to make it all the way to bedroom. He knew he'd been lucky to even make it to the flat, the desire to obey Aziraphale's wishes stronger than the driving force that demanded he forsake his continued existence for the opportunity to share Aziraphale's company a little longer. Now that he'd completed one of the objectives Aziraphale had given him, the drive to return to him and profess his love again only grew in intensity.

He knew he couldn't, of course. Notwithstanding that he didn't physically have it left in him to stand up again, another of Aziraphale's orders had been that he keep himself safe. Rushing back across London to fling himself at the angel's feet would only invite disaster.

That didn't stop his longing from wrapping itself tight around his ribcage and splintering his bones.

It was a cold comfort, knowing that at least Aziraphale wasn't around for the worst of it. That Crowley would be able to properly go to pieces over this without the angel as an audience, his blue eyes filled with needless anguish as he watched Crowley writhe.

That didn't mean he didn't simultaneously ache for Aziraphale's arms to be wrapped around him one more time, for soft reassurances to be whispered against the shell of his ear, for all the love within him – both real and fake – to have somewhere to direct itself.

Just thinking about the look on the angel's face as he'd left the bookshop made him sob aloud again, the wretched shards of his love cutting him to ribbons.

The television on the wall suddenly flickered to life, and Crowley didn't need to look at it to know that someone who far outranked him was currently sneering down at him from the screen.

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. This was the absolute _last_ thing he needed right now.

_"Crowley,"_ Beelzebub drawled, zir voice dripping with derision, _"When the humans said God cursed you to crawl on your belly, you didn't have to take them literally."_

"Yes, Lord," he replied, voice strained.

Beelzebub rolled zir eyes. _"That meanszzz get up, Crowley."_

"Yes, Lord," he repeated, letting out a soft groan as he forced himself up onto his elbows, painfully getting himself to his hands and knees. Once there, though, he couldn't go any further. No matter how many furious, silent commands he threw at his body, it refused to obey him.

_"Despite what you seem to think, your inszzzubordination isn't cute, Crowley,"_ ze said. "We _really shouldn't need to be going over this, but if I give you an order, I exzzzpect you to obey."_

Crowley's shoulders trembled. "I can't."

Ze narrowed zir eyes at him. _"Why?"_

"I was… attacked by Archangels," he ground out, figuring that it was close enough to the truth that things would check out on the off-chance Hell decided to do some compliance checks. "They thought it'd be a laugh to stuff my corporation so full of divinity that I'm practically bursting at the seams." His elbows shook. "Moving at all is proving... challenging."

_"And why would those featherbrainszzz do that?"_

"Might've…" He let out a weak gasp, fingernails turning clawed as he gripped uselessly at the floor to keep himself from faceplanting. "Might've been trying to seduce an angel. Make him Fall."

It was the story he'd already given to Heaven, after all, he might as well be consistent.

Beelzebub steepled zir fingers, one eyebrow raising the barest fraction. _"And?"_ ze asked. _"Were you successzzzful?"_

"He fell in love with me," he offered, vaguely hoping that might soften any retribution he might receive for his overall failure.

Zir other eyebrow climbed up to join its twin, begrudgingly impressed but still not hearing the results ze was after. _"Answer the queszzztion, Crowley. Did he Fall?"_

"Not– not entirely," Crowley prevaricated, feeling his muscles clench tighter as zir expression shifted back to one of complete disinterest.

_"Pity,"_ Beelzebub murmured, not sounding genuinely sympathetic in the slightest.

Crowley bit his tongue hard to try and stop his next words, but they left him anyway, teeth stained ichor-black with his desperation. "If it pleases Your Disgrace, could you– could you get it out of me?"

He was going to owe so many favours if ze said yes, not to mention that having it all removed in one go might hurt more, but Crowley didn't care, too focussed on get rid of the searing brightness bubbling under his skin like acid. He'd almost prefer a boiling pool of sulphur, at this stage.

Beelzebub regarded him impassively. _"Thiszzz divinity_ …" ze asked, words slow and measured. _"Are you in pain?"_

"Yes, Lord," he replied, sweating. He knew it was stupid of him to admit that, but it would have been even stupider of him to try and lie about something so obvious.

_"...Good,"_ Beelzebub said, mouth twitching into a thin smile as Crowley dropped his forehead to the floor in defeat, the cool concrete a paltry comfort against the inferno rending him from within. _"Perhapszzz that will prove sufficient motivation to try harder next time. Besideszzz, I won't have you getting any_ disguszzzting _divinity on my floor."_ Ze inspected zir nails, admiring the dirt crusted underneath them. Ze rubbed zir nails on zir coat and they came away even grimier than before. _"Try not to take too long. You've got work to do, and I won't have you szzzlacking off."_

Then the screen went dark and silent once more, and Crowley was left with only the raging divinity within him to keep him company.


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who severely misjudged how much of this story was left to go? :D
> 
> Seriously, at some point, you'd think I'd learn.
> 
> So, yes, THERE WILL BE ANOTHER CHAPTER (putting it in all caps as I'm sure there's some that just scroll past the author's notes and would not have caught it otherwise). Also, I don't know that I've said it outright anywhere, but there will also be a sequel! Please make sure you're subscribed to the series this fic belongs to (All the Love Within Me), so that you'll catch the sequel when it drops. 
> 
> There's a bit of time jumping in this chapter and the next, as a lot of what would be covered would just be a rehash of the actual plot of the show. Doing that doesn't particularly interest me from a writing perspective, so I'm sure that anything I'd produce in that vein wouldn't be particularly interesting for you to read.
> 
> CW for a very brief bit of suicidal ideation.

Crowley lay shivering on his floor for the next several weeks, the divinity rampaging wild within his body. It made scorched earth of him, bones shattering from the heat and marrow evaporating, like a dried riverbed. On the occasions he could get his vocal cords to co-operate, he'd let out a cracked, desolate sound, a weak echo of the agonised roar that tore at his chest.

If Hell bothered to check in on him during that time, he was too far gone to notice.

Whenever he felt that he wouldn't be able to survive the pain anymore, it seemed to increase, growing more frantic in its assault on him for all that it was slowly being purged from him. The only thing left of him was the bright, blinding agony of at all, scouring away at his very identity, his sanity fraying away at the edges as he lay silently sobbing on his floor. All he could do was to curl up as tight as he possibly could, limbs folding in like a dying spider.

He wanted Aziraphale.

He could never have him.

Especially not when he was like this. And especially not after.

Perhaps the only mercy he even had right now was that at least Aziraphale wasn't witness to the worst of it.

Crowley thought of the Fall, of streaking away from Heaven like one of the comets he'd helped design, questions lost amidst his screams as he hurtled towards that sulphurous pit. He thought of how no matter how terrible it had been, at least it had been _quick_ , had at least left him with jagged pieces to try and put back together. This slow sundering didn't seem like it would leave anything of him behind.

He thought, longer than he cared to admit, of a tartan thermos, an ironic cure for the divinity raging rampant within him.

It was only a few metres from where he lay.

It might as well have been on the moon.

He lost track of time. Not just from the pain diluting his perception of reality, but also because he was afflicted with occasional bouts of unconsciousness, mind and body offering him the only respite they could, however brief.

The fleeting mercy only really served to keep the agony fresh when it dragged him back to the waking world.

Finally, _finally_ , the divinity's desperate assault on him crested, subsiding in glacially slow waves. By the time that he'd regained enough control over his body to look down at the date display on his watch – breath coming in wet sobs as he ground his forehead hard against the floor to feel something other than the flames licking at his bones – more than three months had passed.

It was another two weeks before he was able to bring himself to stand, knees wobbling and threatening to cave under him.

He dragged himself over to his desk, sagging into the throne chair with a sigh of relief, and pulled the receiver of his phone towards him. It wasn't the brightest idea he'd ever had, calling the bookshop from his landline when he and Aziraphale were presumably under more scrutiny than usual from their respective employers, but he didn't have much of an alternative. The prospect of having to navigate the streets to find a payphone just made him want to curl up in a ball for another month, and he could only imagine the grooves Aziraphale had worn into his floorboards, pacing and wringing his hands as he worried endlessly about how Crowley was doing. Crowley couldn't let him live like that. He'd hurt him enough already.

It took him a few tries to dial the number properly, what with how badly his fingers were shaking. When he finally managed it, it rang, and rang, and rang, with no angel on the other end of the line.

Whether or not Aziraphale actually had an answering machine, Crowley expected that he would at least be able to leave a message, and the line dutifully clicked over to voicemail.

"'Ziraphale," he croaked, voice sounding like a fissure opening up in the ground. "'S me. Dunno if you even want to talk, but I figured I should let you know I'm doing–" He started to say _fine_ , but the lie caught in his throat. He cleared it and tried again. "Well. Better, at least. It's not gone, not by a long shot, but I'm–" _still in love with you_ , his brain supplied unhelpfully. Crowley bit down hard on his bottom lip to keep the words from escaping.

That was the last thing Aziraphale needed to hear right now, even if it was true. He knew he had to brace himself for the possibility that Aziraphale wouldn't ever be ready to hear it again, that Crowley would only ever see devastated guilt and pain in the angel's eyes if he tried.

He let out a quiet sigh, doing his best not to let it shake. "I can manage, is what I'm trying to say." What he _couldn't_ say was that Aziraphale shouldn't keep worrying about him. "I'll be back at it with wiles for you to try and thwart before long, just you wait," he said instead, belatedly trying to inject some measure of threat into his tone in the event that someone other than Aziraphale happened to listen in.

It was a weak rejoinder and he knew it, but he didn't have the energy for anything more. He hung up and rested his forehead against the desk with a soft groan.

The divinity plucked at him from the inside, compelling him to abide by Aziraphale's wishes and go to bed, sleep it off. But Aziraphale also wanted him to keep himself safe. There was too great a risk that one of his superiors would check in to see how his suffering was coming along, and things would go rather badly for him if instead Hell caught him napping.

So, Crowley slid from his throne to the floor, and slowly moved like his namesake back to the spot where he'd first collapsed. He curled up tight, closed his eyes, and waited for his soul to be emptied of divinity once more.

It took another few months before the divinity had diminished enough that he could reasonably be expected to function. It still wasn't gone completely, and the already-glacial creep seemed to have slowed even further, but he couldn't just lie on the floor forever.

With a groan, and the smouldering remains of the divinity still licking sullenly at his bones, Crowley drew himself upright.

There was no rest for the wicked, after all.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––

Crowley was miserable – and not just because his workload had increased significantly, given that the Arrangement rather required communication of any kind with Aziraphale, and that the angel had quietly ignored the overtures Crowley made in the months following.

Not that Crowley blamed him.

What could Aziraphale possibly want with him now? He was barely more than a husk, a body no longer meant to hold something divine, left with only the love he could make on his own. Such paltry offerings were far less than what the angel deserved – and Aziraphale had already rejected Crowley when he was still filled with divinity. Spending time with Crowley would only remind him of all the things he didn't think he was allowed to have, that he didn't believe Crowley truly wanted to give him.

He stomped on the fragile love still curled around his heart like a weed, doing his best to crush it beneath his heel.

It was several millennia too late for that – he was utterly overrun by love for Aziraphale, there was no ridding himself of it now. If he didn't know better, he would have thought that all this truly was a punishment, that the penalty for a demon that dared to love was that it would never be allowed to bloom.

There would be more than a few times, in the years following, where he would wonder whether that might actually be true.

He didn't call the bookshop again.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––

Crowley blessed absently under his breath, too shellshocked to put any venom into it.

This was too soon. He blinked, trying to focus on the road, trying to parse the decades that had seemed to pass him by without his notice. It had taken almost two years for the divinity to fade entirely, or at the very least subside to low enough levels that its presence didn't at all register. After that, the days and weeks and years had plodded along in a homogenous blur, such that he only remembered the turn of the millennium in abstract.

He'd always thought he'd have more time than this. After all, it was one thing to be working towards the end of the world as a general concept; it was another entirely to have a direct role in kicking off the whole thing.

His gaze flicked up to the rear-view mirror, to the bundle of despair nestled in a wicker basket in the back seat, and he blessed again.

Crowley delivered his charge to the satanic nunnery, tried to tell himself that there was nothing more for him to do about it, that he'd washed his shaking hands of it.

Instead of going home for a well-deserved nap, though, he drove to an out-of-the-way telephone box, and dialled a number he'd long ago memorised but hadn't rung in over twenty years.

He couldn't let the next time he saw Aziraphale be on the blood-soaked fields of Armageddon.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––

They met, as they so often had before, in St James Park. It was even more difficult than usual to keep his gaze straight ahead, to not scrutinise the angel's face for clues – _does he still love me? Does he still think I don't love him?_ – and he eventually gave up on the pretence, turning to drink in those familiar features as he tried to convince Aziraphale to help him stop the end of the world.

Crowley could see the conflict waging war in his eyes, pain and longing and denial all locked in a stalemate. Once he started looking at Aziraphale, he couldn't quite bring himself to stop – watching the angel out of the corner of his eye as they walked, rather blatantly staring at him from behind his sunglasses whilst they ate, returning again to looking at him in his periphery as they made their way to the bookshop, as if Aziraphale might simply vanish if Crowley averted his gaze for too long.

He had to fight to keep himself from clutching at the doorjamb as he crossed over the bookshop's threshold, vividly remembering the expression on Aziraphale's face the last time he'd been there. He forced himself inside, hoping that Aziraphale missed his moment of hesitation, or if not, that he'd put it down to the lingering traces of the decades-old wards meant to keep demons out.

The slight downturn of the corners of Aziraphale's mouth, the shameful downcasting of his eyes, told him his hope was in vain.

It was only once they were safely ensconced behind the privacy of a locked door that Aziraphale obliquely inquired after Crowley's wellbeing, his tone a few degrees too measured to come across as casual.

Crowley knew what he was really asking. He told Aziraphale what he wanted to hear – that the divinity had finally faded, and that Crowley wasn't in love with him.

Only one of those statements was the truth.

And the way Aziraphale looked at him told Crowley that they both knew it. There was too much pain in Aziraphale's expression, though, for Crowley to believe that he understood the whole truth. That Aziraphale would allow himself to so much as hope that Crowley's love for him was something he'd made on his own.

Still, the lie seemed to assuage the angel enough for him to fetch a selection of wines for them to get themselves utterly shitfaced on. Crowley flung himself into his usual armchair – still in exactly the same spot it had always been – and took off his sunglasses, the motions familiar and instinctual for all that it had been decades since he'd had drinks at the bookshop.

It took him several seconds too long to register that he'd taken his sunglasses off. By then, Aziraphale had noticed, and it was too late. He blessed silently to himself, averting his gaze briefly as he tucked them away, and resigned himself to the fact that his emotions would be fully on display for the duration of this conversation.

He downed several glasses of wine with something less like enthusiasm and more like grim determination. He wasn't worried about doing something stupid whilst drunk; he'd had millennia of practice in keeping a tight lid screwed down on his feelings when it came to Aziraphale, no matter how much alcohol he'd recently ingested.

It really didn't take much for him to convince Aziraphale to be a bit more reasonable about the whole Apocalypse business. Not that that surprised him – with a few notable exceptions, they really did agree on a lot of things, and thinking that Earth was a far more pleasant place to be if it wasn't being used as the staging ground for a celestial war was one of them. It was just that Aziraphale had always needed the security of a logical argument before he'd admit that he agreed with Crowley on something like this. How would it look, after all, if he acquiesced to a demon's entreaties with no resistance? It was only because Aziraphale had denied himself for so long that the Archangels had deigned to give him Crowley as a gift. Not that Heaven was particularly likely to be anywhere near as lenient next time, should their collusion be discovered.

But, in the end, Aziraphale loved humanity – and Crowley – a little too much to allow the Earth to go up in flames.

And, well, if the worst came to pass, and their plan did end up failing…

At least they'd have spent their last few years on Earth together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next chapter: the promised happy ending! Almost there, folks!


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *yells* I did it! It's done! It's also now officially the longest GO fic I've written (albeit only by a few hundred words, but still)!
> 
> I do hope that the ending lives up to expectations! Remember, it's not going to be a perfect fairytale thing - they've got a lot to work through, but that's what the sequel is going to be for. The important part is that they'll be well on the road to healing :)

The world hadn't ended.

Aziraphale sat on the bench at the edge of Tadfield, feeling shellshocked and rather small.

It almost didn't seem real. For all that he and Crowley truly hadn't wanted Armageddon to occur, they were only one angel and one demon – there had never been a whole lot that they could have done to alter the course of things.

A pattern that had certainly run true in the aversion of Armageddon – it was really only because they'd failed rather spectacularly in their intended plans, paving the way for the human element to sort things out for them.

For all that they'd been largely useless throughout the entire ordeal, it had still, as Crowley had gently pointed out, cost them both any claim of allegiance to their respective former sides. All they had left was each other.

Aziraphale's heart tightened, the love he'd tried to keep smothered since he'd noticed its existence rearing its head. Despite all of Aziraphale's efforts, his love stubbornly remained, battered and bruised and neglected as it was. Now, it made its presence known, chest clenching down as Crowley gazed at him with the understanding of someone who had known him for six millennia.

It had never quite stopped hurting to begin with, but gradually, it had become a dull ache, ignorable from time to time. It was never ignorable when he was actually in Crowley's presence. Painful as the exercise was, he'd still relished the time they'd spent together whilst raising Warlock – if only for the proof that Crowley was alive and functioning, that Aziraphale hadn't completely broken something he so deeply cherished.

It certainly wasn't ignorable now. Not with Crowley so close to him, with that tender look on his face, almost as if he might actually–

In the end, Aziraphale almost felt relieved when the bus approached. He certainly couldn't let himself feel disappointed, after all.

They clambered onboard the near-empty bus, and it took off almost immediately, not waiting for them to find a seat first. Rather than leading them towards the back of the bus, Crowley sat down in the first forward-facing pair of seats, leaving no space for Aziraphale to sit in the row in front of him as he usually did.

A small thrill raced along Aziraphale's spine as he realised that wasn't something they needed to do anymore. Keeping that degree of separation wouldn't do anything to protect either of them - they'd both been cast out by their kind already. There would be no disappointed sigh from Gabriel, no disapproving downturn of Michael's lips, no condescendingly raised eyebrow from Uriel. No reprimands, no miracle restrictions, no looming threat of being reassigned to desk duty in Heaven if his performance didn't improve.

Nothing at all would change if Aziraphale decided to sit beside Crowley now, pressed shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, swaying as one to the rhythm of the road.

So he did.

He carefully didn't look at Crowley as he slipped his hand into the demon's palm, tangling their fingers. Even if Crowley didn't truly love him, Aziraphale knew that he was certainly kind enough to allow him this, this small measure of comfort, this watercolour imitation of the intimacy he craved.

For the too-short span of the bus ride, Aziraphale could pretend. It was such a well-worn fantasy of his – nothing too outrageous, just something simple, that was all he'd ever dared to allow himself to think of. Of Crowley's fingers cradled in his own, as they were now, the demon leaning warmly against him…

And that Crowley would love Aziraphale back, of his own volition.

It still seemed like far more than he could ever hope to deserve.

It took a significant force of will for him to disentangle himself from Crowley's grip once the bus dropped them off in Mayfair. Aziraphale quietly thanked the driver as they disembarked, who merely blinked at his surroundings in confusion before shaking his head and driving off.

"Shall we?" Crowley asked, gesturing up at the apartment building.

Aziraphale nodded briefly at him, following his gaze. "Yes, let's."

He'd never been to Crowley's flat before. Whenever they'd retired somewhere for drinks, it had always been to the bookshop. It made a certain sort of sense – the bookshop was already open to the public during the day, and Aziraphale had occupied for nigh on two centuries now, it was certainly a far less private space than Crowley's flat would be. Aziraphale had never invited Crowley up to the first floor of the bookshop, after all.

The inside of the flat was unsurprisingly spartan; all clean lines, sharp angles, and a dark palette with a splash of scarlet, just like the demon that owned it.

"Make yourself at home," Crowley told him, waving his hand in the direction of the living room before disappearing down the hallway.

Aziraphale moved further into the living room, and was confronted with two options: a low, sleek leather couch, or what he assumed was meant to be an armchair but could just as easily have been a modern art piece. Taking a seat on the sofa, which would likely oblige Crowley to join him, seemed more than a little presumptuous, so Aziraphale took his chances with the baffling armchair, trying to settle himself on what he assumed was the seat.

Crowley returned, two fresh bottles of wine in hand, in the middle of Aziraphale futilely trying to wriggle into a comfortable position. The corner of his mouth quirked up, briefly lifting the tired droop of his face. "I've got it on good authority that the designer of that chair didn't actually intend for people to sit on it," he said gently, slouching down onto the couch and holding out one of the bottles in Aziraphale's direction.

Aziraphale stood gladly and accepted the wine. Crowley didn't appear to have brought out any wine glasses with him, but nevertheless he was already uncorking the bottle and immediately bringing it to his lips. Aziraphale supposed if any occasion called for it, it was now. Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to engage without invitation, and stood there awkwardly, clutching his bottle.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him over the rim of his sunglasses, and meaningfully canted his head towards the empty space on the couch next to him. Grateful, Aziraphale obligingly sat, still cradling his wine as the demon took another swig of his own.

"So," Crowley said evenly. "I imagine Heaven and Hell're getting the firing squad ready for the both of us."

Aziraphale finally uncorked his own bottle and took a shaky gulp of wine. "Do you mean to say you think they'll want to… deal with us, together?"

"Nah," Crowley replied, balancing the bottle on his knee as he knuckled the neck of it tightly. "Reckon they'll whisk us both off to our respective head offices so that everything's handled on home turf. Expect you'll be getting a strongly worded summons once they've got everything sorted."

"Once they've got what sorted?" Aziraphale asked, already knowing the answer. He'd seen the look on Gabriel's face at the airbase – the pièce de résistance of Aziraphale's many failures to uphold angelic standards over the years. No amount of pity was going to save him this time.

What would mercy from Heaven matter, even, if Hell took Crowley from him?

Crowley took a long drink and a long pause before replying. "Holy water for me," he said finally, voice cracking, "And hellfire for you." He took off his sunglasses and tossed them onto the coffee table, but didn't look at Aziraphale. "Can hardly leave a pair of traitors like us to our own devices, can they?"

Aziraphale winced. "Do you really believe they'd work together on something like that?"

"You got holy water for me, didn't you?" Crowley said, turning to look at him. "We set the precedent for collusion ourselves, really."

His lips tightened in the facsimile of a smile. "I suppose you're right."  
  
Crowley snorted mirthlessly. "Yeah, usually am."

Aziraphale took a fortifying gulp of wine. "So," he said, voice wobbling despite the liquid courage, "What's our plan, then?"

The look Crowley gave him stirred something in Aziraphale that he'd spent centuries trying to bury. "I was sort of hoping you'd have something."

"Ah," Aziraphale said, throat sticking. He swallowed. "Well. Like Agnes said. We shall have to choose our faces wisely."

"Right," Crowley agreed. "So, what does that mean?"

His shoulders dropped. "I… I don't know."

Tears stung hotly at his eyes.

It wasn't fair. Here he was, once more so close to having what he wanted, and it was all about to be torn away from him, again, by a Heaven that didn't understand how love was meant to work.

Perhaps it really was for the best that the Archangels planned to execute him. Aziraphale was sure he wouldn't survive Crowley being taken from him a second time.

He barely felt he'd survived the first time.

It had really only been the thought of Crowley that had seen him through. He'd held every memory of Crowley curled up sweetly against him close, playing them again and again in his mind over the years, wearing them smooth, like so many pebbles tumbled over and over in a river. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could still see Crowley perfectly. After all, he'd known the demon so long, at this point, was aware of all of Crowley's idiosyncrasies and mannerisms, was likely more familiar with Crowley's face than his own–

The bottle dropped from Aziraphale's fingers and hit the floor with a clatter, wine sloshing out onto the tile.

"I know what we need to do."

\--------------------

"You ready?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale nodded, attempting to smile. "Of course. It was _my_ idea, after all."

"Technically, it was Agnes'," Crowley pointed out, lips curling softly in a way that Aziraphale knew meant Crowley was trying to soothe his nerves.

"All the better, then," Aziraphale replied. "She hasn't been wrong yet, I see no reason that she'd start being wrong now."

"All right," Crowley said, offering his hand. "Ready when you are, angel."

Aziraphale took a deep breath and firmly grasped Crowley's hand.

He gasped a little at the touch. Sure, they'd touched before – had even been holding hands a mere few hours prior – but this was different. It was more open, on all levels, everything that made them up on display. Aziraphale felt instantly cracked open and vulnerable, all his shameful inadequacies thrust to the forefront.

He could hardly bring himself to care about how poorly he must be measuring up in Crowley's eyes, not when Crowley was opening himself up like this, allowing Aziraphale to view something so precious. Not even the one time that Aziraphale had looked into Crowley's soul before, to check on the level of divinity within him, had he been able to see quite so deep.

That divinity was entirely gone, now. All that remained was Crowley, no less resplendent or beautiful for the absence of anything holy. Aziraphale could see all of him, all the pain, the fear, the desperation.

There was one emotion, though, that engulfed them all, blazing bright and true at the core of him.

Aziraphale felt a love of a dizzying scale, fierce and utterly undeniable, and right at the beating centre of it–

Him. That love was for him.

Before Aziraphale could even take a proper look at it, marvel at its vast, chaotic beauty, he was already slipping past it, his consciousness abruptly tumbling into the form that usually housed his best friend of six thousand years. He reeled a little, trying to adjust to the familiar geometry of Crowley's shape from an entirely unfamiliar angle, and looked up into startled blue eyes. He felt a vague wash of relief that Crowley appeared to have made the transition with no issues on his end, either.

"Is that really what I look like when I'm looking at you?" Crowley blurted, unable to help himself.

Aziraphale barely heard him, mind still caught in the maelstrom of Crowley's emotions as they'd rushed past him.

There was nothing of the divine to Crowley's love, and Aziraphale knew far better by now than to be disappointed by the fact. Clear as day, Aziraphale could finally see the truth, could hear it screaming in the tattered, bleeding heart of him.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley asked, brow wrinkling, and oh, Aziraphale really did have a face that lent itself well to worrying, didn't he? "Everything all right in there?"

"You're still in love with me," he whispered, understanding for the first time the desire to shed his skin completely in favour of something that could slither off through the undergrowth, something with the ability to coil in on himself in great heaping loops, face hidden, armour out. Not that he actually _could_ , now, that was a skill that belonged to Crowley himself, not the corporation Aziraphale was now occupying.

Crowley's face tightened, a shame as familiar as Aziraphale's own filling crystalline eyes before he looked away. "We both knew that already," he said. "You've never been ready to hear it."

Aziraphale's hands still ached to touch him, but was the urge to do so purely his own? Was it also the lingering desire of the demon who had so recently occupied this skin? Was the longing in his fingertips simply something ingrained deep in the muscle memory of this body?

Whatever the driving force, Aziraphale couldn't help but reach out, trembling fingers sliding into Crowley's palm once more, the demon looking at him like he hadn't expected Aziraphale to actually offer to touch him ever again.

Aziraphale's voice was unsteady, and not just because these vocal cords weren't as familiar as his own.

"I've been a fool," he said, giving Crowley's hand the gentlest of squeezes. "I cannot begin to express how sorry I am. For everything. I should have been ready far sooner than this."

"Not your fault," Crowley managed, voice choked.

Aziraphale gave him a soft, sad smile. "I can't shift all the blame elsewhere, Crowley. I underestimated you, as I so often seem to do. I pushed you away, again and again, because I was too blind to see the truth. I'm sorry it's taken me this long to catch up with you."

Crowley slowly inched closer, still hesitant, as if he couldn't quite yet convince himself that this wasn't all a dream.

"Aziraphale, I need you to be absolutely sure you believe me," he said, hands and voice both shaking, like he was about to tremble right back out of Aziraphale's body if he wasn't careful. His breath came in uncertain, ragged puffs, the warmth of them close enough to skate over Aziraphale's cheeks. Close enough for Aziraphale to count the individual pale eyelashes around Crowley's eyes, to long to see them in their true, serpentine hue. Aziraphale gathered Crowley's hands up and held them close to his chest, trying to help anchor him. Crowley stared at his lips and inched a little closer. "I don't– if you commit to this, then change your mind on whether or not you think I want this for myself, I won't–"

"I believe you," Aziraphale whispered, and kissed him.

He supposed that if he were human, there might have been some strangeness to effectively kissing his own lips. As he was an angel, however, his body was merely a receptacle for his true self, albeit one he'd grown very comfortable with. That meant that the plump fingers caressing his jawline were all Crowley, the press of a slightly upturned nose against his cheek was all Crowley, the love being flung at him like a barrage was all Crowley. There was no spark of divinity in Crowley's love, just raw, pure emotion, entirely his own, constructed by bloodied hands from the rawest parts of him. Aziraphale almost wept with relief.

"I love you," he whispered instead.

"Hgnh," Crowley said back, fingers shaking as they clutched at the collar of Aziraphale's jacket. He pulled back from the kiss and dropped his forehead against Aziraphale's collarbone, breath coming in fragile gasps. "I thought you weren't ever going to want this," he mumbled, unable to meet the piercing yellow of his own eyes. "I thought you'd be convinced forever it was one-sided, that it couldn't ever be real–"

"It's real," Aziraphale promised, pressing gentle, soothing kisses to Crowley's cheeks. Crowley's mouth sought his own like a man drowning.

"I love you," Aziraphale whispered again, cherishing the feel of those words passing over beloved lips of their own volition.

Only, they weren't forming the words through Crowley's will, were they? This was, quite literally, Aziraphale putting words in Crowley's mouth. Even without the divinity, Aziraphale was still directing his actions.

He shoved the unworthy thought aside. He had the proof, now, didn't he? He'd seen through to the very depths of Crowley's soul. Surely Crowley deserved far better than this from him, than to have Aziraphale still fearing that he was only subjecting himself to Aziraphale's love because Aziraphale wanted him to.

He pulled away from the kiss abruptly, a soft gasp leaving him as he hung his head in shame, fingers clasped around Crowley's lapels.

"Too fast?" Crowley offered tightly.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "All that's happening, I... I can't give this the energy and thought it deserves, at present." His whole body trembled. "I love you so much, Crowley, and I promise that I believe you love me too, but I so desperately don't want to ruin this. There's simply too much else going on, I need more time."

"We could be dead in a few days, if not sooner," Crowley protested, desperation carved into every line of him. "Heaven and Hell aren't going to leave a pair of loose ends like us flapping in the breeze for long."

"Which is exactly why we should wait," Aziraphale replied, some firmness returning to his tone. "We should take the time to do it right, without a threat like that hanging over our heads."

Crowley's shoulders drooped slightly, eyes downcast. "'M sorry," he mumbled. "I just…"

Aziraphale gently took hold of his hand, fighting the urge to fiddle with his pinkie ring, given that Crowley was currently the one wearing it. "You've nothing to apologise for. I know I've already made you wait an appallingly long time. I hope it won't be asking too much of you to wait a little longer?"

"I've waited millennia," Crowley told him with a sigh, eyes soft and patient. "I'd wait them all over again, for you."

"Oh," Aziraphale said quietly, heart clenching. "I truly don't deserve you, my dear."

"Can I–" Crowley's voice cracked. "Can I still hold you? Would you want that?"

"Oh, Crowley, I never stopped wanting that."

There was apparently still a bit of the serpent left in the body he was currently inhabiting, and Aziraphale didn't think twice about being the one to curl up in the other's lap, long limbs folding up far more compactly than their usual elegant sprawl. Form shaped function, to an extent, and Aziraphale basked in the warmth radiating from Crowley's newly acquired bulk.

After.

They would unpack all of this after.

"I love you," he whispered again, tucking his head up under Crowley's chin, ear pressed to his thrumming heart.

Crowley's arms wrapped around him, soft and solid and strong. "Love you too," he mumbled, and Aziraphale didn't need to see it to know that a pink flush was mounting on Crowley's cheeks.

"This will work, Crowley, I swear it," he murmured, shifting to look up at the demon wearing his face. "I believe in Agnes, but, more importantly, I believe in you. I know you will do everything in your power to come back to me." He smiled. "You always do."

"Better work," Crowley grumbled, cupping Aziraphale's face with one hand and drawing a thumb over his cheekbone, unable to entirely keep the trembling fear out of his tone. "You have any idea how annoyed I'll be with you if it doesn't?"

Aziraphale gave him another gentle smile, turning his head slightly to press a kiss to his palm, still marvelling that such an action was permitted. "You're right, we certainly can't have that," he agreed. "We'll just both have to survive, then."

"Glad we got that settled," Crowley told him gruffly.

Aziraphale settled back down against Crowley's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart next to his ear.

Whatever might come, they would face it as one; through stumbles and starts, they had found the truth.

Finally, they were on a side all their own.

Together, at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously mentioned, THERE WILL BE A SEQUEL! Haven't decided what to call it yet, but, if you're interested, please subscribe to the series All the Love Within Me, so that you'll see when the sequel gets posted. Word of warning, it may be a little while off, because I've got another project I've been wanting to get started for ages (and that I meant to start posting over a month ago, but this fic kept getting longer and longer on me, story of my life).

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments of all shapes and sizes are greatly appreciated, and any properly credited creative responses are much adored (I only ask the you let me know once you post it, so that I can make excited noises at you).


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